From windowed desk

A dull day as I peer out the office window,  

a blue umbrella on the balcony stands out of place,  

flanked by green planters,  

and beyond, a river of endless traffic,  

signs of a city alive but smudged,  

smoke-dusted like caked dirt settling on antique furnitures. 

Inside, sounds pulse around me

an accountant flipping through invoices,  

phones ringing, voices blurring into noise.  

An open laptop waits, 

pages of Naked Lunch unread,  

I'm penning this, lost in a drift of music.  

Right now, the pen stirs more with life than it's known in years 

It breathes between words, in the pauses as my mind drifts, restless. 

There are no autumn leaves, no gold or burnished red,

no birds perched and resting, 

just a ghostly cityscape,  

and a lone crow 

cutting across the bleak air.

I linger, my bag half-packed, lingering in the quiet,

caught in a day dream, 

rooted at my desk

lost in the distant blur of my own reflection