At the Leasing Office, Waiting to Pay My Rent
Fan-flicker over tapestried chair-back,
hand, a brow,
September the sun gone
dim behind space, clouds and pine needles—
some dead on the skylight
doing for stained glass—
that’s twilight. Morning’s
wood walls, Beams’ X, six-foot arches
squared and trimmed plain. “No personal checks,”
some fat guy’s barking orders
while I’m in this other chair
with thumb and index raised in a loop,
a quarter-sized spot at arm’s length,
marks where a heart should beat.