[Portrait of Andre Salmon, Moise Kisling, 1912]
The Possible Dream
It’s 6:30pm. Time
to go home.
You lean forward and rise up
from your hygienic desk.
Retreating from your appearance.
Having held it well.
You march for the final passage.
You approach glass doors
and it ceases–clack of typewriters
Jangling salesmen. Appropriate smoke.
Through the landscaped plaza
shimmering in subtle hues
Your legs answer with nylon slide
and the rhythm of high heels.
No bellowing weeds. No crackling roots.
No trumpeting sun. No blooming moon.
Only pollen-free air and your syncopation,
As you enter the opulent lobby,
You nod to the concierge
Who approves your gray decoration.
You cross the lobby and enter
a high-speed elevator.
In thirty-five seconds,
you will have transcended as many floors.
You step out, tread across plush carpet
open your door and enter.
You close your door.
Now to go empty
your blazer. Resign it to the back
of a Puritanical chair. Unzip
your straight skirt. Arrange it
Unhook you bra. Peel it
from you breasts. Disengage
garters from stockings.
Unroll their color. You pores cheer
open to thin walls
You are naked.