The office building out my window
is a twisted wreck, a distorted reflection
of the office building I’m standing in.
I wave across the divide
of streets and telephone wires and clouds.
Seagulls fly along unaware.
The city makes its city sounds.
The people and all their being
compounded. They are tiny.
They are effortless. They think
the same of me, way up here
in the middle of nowhere,
waving at the twisted version of myself.
If I squint and peer and crick my neck just so,
I think I see me waving back.