The woman standing
outside the thirteenth floor window
of an office building in Albquerque,
thinks she is in a Magrite painting,
fears the wind will take away her bowler,
believes cartoons are as real as reality
and that lack of belief
is just as strong as belief.
She does not feel it is her fault
that traffic is tied up for blocks
and emergency vehicles blare sirens,
that lights flash patriotically
and there are professional people
speaking at her from the window.
The view of the mountains and the river
is better from this vantage point
than from her windowless cubical
and the bird songs are far lovelier than her boss
who does not know how to say thank you.
In fact, this is a good place for a picnic
and she wishes her children
and her three ex-husbands would join her,
can’t understand why the deli
won’t deliver, as she has a taste for slaw.
The birds, she realizes, are too attached
to the notion of gravity and create
as big a flap as the fretting professionals,
but there are rain drops rising past her face
and she takes comfort in that sort of beauty.
She is hungry now, like Eve, takes the apple
of her eye from its traditional place
and eats it, consumes in twelve different ways
all the words of the apostles, even Bartholemew,
but not Mathias.
Finally, her daughter, in Paris, sets the paintbrush
in the tin of turpentine, wipes her hands clean
and goes to a corner cafe
for a glass of wine and whatever
the cook will whip up this close to midnight.