Man In The Window

his shoulders hold him

fast to that broken sill

four stories high

his tomorrows shadow

the shapes of men passed

before, their hands

gnarled by heavy hammers

nails that bind and pull

hard wood together

climbing atop scaffolding

like we would rope swing

into the cool lake

our backs to the world

only directing our eyes

ahead

now the leaves fall in piles

and the man knows

he can count the years

he has left on both hands

and his shoulders remain

the heaviest part of him

his dreams still light

as air