Window Washer

One hand slops suds on, one hustles them down like a blind. Brusque noon glare, filtered thus, loosens and glows. For five or six minutes he owns the place, dismal coffee bar, and us, its huddled underemployed. A blade, black line against the topmost glass, begins, slices off the outer lather, flings it away, works inward, corrals the frothy middle, and carves, with quick cuts, the stuff down, not looking for anything, beneath or inside. Homes to the last, cleans its edges, grooms it for the end, then shaves it off and flings it away. Which is splendid, and merciless. And all in the wrist. Then, he looks at us. We makers of filth, we splashers and spitters. We sitters and watchers. Who like to see him work. Who love it when he leaves and gives it back: our grim hideout, half spoiled by clarity.