The Janitor and the Solar Eclipse
Fold over fold he rolled his sleeve
in the high rise shade of the concrete yard,
arm thick, heavy and black
from a thousand stolen afternoons.
Hips then chest, he reclined-
his back to the steps,
removed his watch,
awaited the sun
that inched down the roof
to the pediment edge.
A drop, trickle, stream,
in cataracts fell from ledge to ledge,
splashed in the alley,
churned against walls
and gathered at his stoop.
He dipped a finger in the light-
cuticle, knuckle, palm, wrist
coated himself again and again,
sucked it all in his gleaming purple skin-
reclined, chest then hips.
And just the way he did not move,
his body sodden with afternoon,
it seemed to her, in the waning sun
at the corner window of her dining room,
he was reason
it was almost dark at noon.