He's hanging by a thread, dangling, swinging
Squeegee in hand, gracefully, so delicately pressing
Against the windows so impossibly high, so far from the teeming
Street scene, I watch in fascination and disbelief
From where does this thread hang, such a tiny bracket secured
To the rooftop, and yet
He seems so serene, as if dancing in flight was
All in a days work, or maybe not even a days work,
But a days pleasure to be free of earthly troubles, suspended
Aloft, above all the troubles and grime of life.
He's free.
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