Looking Out the Window Poem

The sounds of traffic die over the back lawn to occur again in the low distance. The voices, risen, of the neighborhood cannot maintain that pitch and fail briefly, start up again. Similarly my breathing rises and falls while I look out the window of apartment number three in this slum, hoping for rage, or sorrow. They don’t come to me anymore. How can I lament anything? It is all so proper, so much as it should be, now the nearing cumulus clouds, ominous, shift, they are like the curtains, billowy, veering at the apex of their intrusion on the room. If I am alive now, it is only to be in all this making all possible. I am glad to be finally a part of such machinery. I was after all not so fond of living, and there comes into me, when I see how little I liked being a man, a great joy. Look out our astounding clear windows before evening. It is almost as if the world were blue with some lubricant, it shines so.