NEIGHBOR ON THE 12TH FLOOR

The mist turns the glass into black mirrors
On the building across the courtyard where I sit;
Below are fountains with a landscaped garden;
On this dreadfully dark and dismal day,
Directly across from me is one fixed window
With lowered white drapes, like a blank page,
Breaking up the monotony of the brick façade;
Out comes a fat brown cat from the curtain,
Tip toes to center stage, and poses like a Buddha.
I stare at him, he stares back; Rain begins to fall.
From the dryness of our geometric enclaves,
We both stare into the no-man’s land of tears
Between us, as I wait for a poem to arrive.

His big head follows his eyes in prescribed ticks.
He memorizes the new shapes of fluttering trees
Whose fresh spring leaves sweat in the downpour;
He follows the jogger circling on the path below,
Going around and around for no apparent reason;
He sees the puddles forming waterholes for local birds,
The starlings whom he seems to know by name;
He watches the squirrels playing hide-and-go-seek..

He finds everything so interesting, except for me!
He knows I’m stalled in my poem about him; Finally,
He suggests a collaboration from his windowpane;
I should simply meditate on the sensation of the rain
On the leaves, the feathers, the fur, the shirtless man,
(Who, like me, does his laps without any plan;)
I must imagine the sweet wind shampooing my hair,
And soaking my skin to cleanse any despair-
And only then will he consider me a candidate
To share his secret nirvana, and illuminate
Me in his sermon of the catly platitudes,
So I can finish my poem with the right attitudes.