An ant crawling up the glass.
The dull grey expanse of sky. No clouds in sight.
The tops of buildings, half-constructed.
A patch of green, rich, tempting, like velvet.
Cars gliding in, cars gliding out.
And huddles of smokers, restless on their feet,
their figures slightly bent, pulled forward by intent.
Even the cars seem sure, so full of purpose,
that I feel life is passing me by,
as I sit here, behind a piece of glass.
But I am mesmerized by the view outside my window.
Hypnotized, like one is by fish tanks and terrariums.
I go back to the pretend games of old.
Turn into a microbiologist, watching fascinated,
a petri dish teeming with life.
At that moment, I am detached from what I see.
I could be an alien instead, so great is my wonder.
Or a boy of twelve in a darkened theater,
staring at a bright, flickering scene.
Or an idler at an exhibition, passing time,
staring at the frames, seeing, yet unseeing.
Knowing inside that it all means something.
But not seeing it, growing uneasy.
My phone rings, my table vibrates.
I feel relief, like a river rushing through my veins.
“Hello?” I say, already loving the caller.
My gaze dragged back to the dark indoors.
My attention my own again.