I try to ignore the window
washer leaning against me; he strokes the sheet
that separates us, blocks my light,
my view of construction across the way,
but ignores me, too,
when our gazes accidentally intersect,
a moment before we recalibrate
our focal depths. Then he becomes the window

through which I glance, groping for the next
word, hand hovering above this blank, while I become
the glass that reflects his form,
a form he doesn't even have to watch
in order to sustain
its perfect rhythm's line.