I love poems that take pains to observe people at their tasks, and here\u2019s a fine one by Christopher Todd Matthews, who lives in Virginia.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Window Washer<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/p>\n One hand slops suds on, one<\/p>\n<\/p>\n hustles them down like a blind.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n Brusque noon glare, filtered thus,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n loosens and glows. For five or<\/p>\n<\/p>\n six minutes he owns the place,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n dismal coffee bar, and us, its<\/p>\n<\/p>\n huddled underemployed. A blade,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n black line against the topmost glass,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n begins, slices off the outer lather,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n flings it away, works inward,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n corrals the frothy middle, and carves,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n with quick cuts, the stuff down,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n not looking for anything, beneath<\/p>\n<\/p>\n or inside. Homes to the last,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n cleans its edges, grooms it for<\/p>\n<\/p>\n the end, then shaves it off<\/p>\n<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n and flings it away. Which is<\/p>\n<\/p>\n splendid, and merciless. And all<\/p>\n<\/p>\n in the wrist. Then, he looks at us.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n We makers of filth, we splashers<\/p>\n<\/p>\n and spitters. We sitters and watchers.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n Who like to see him work.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n Who love it when he leaves<\/p>\n<\/p>\n and gives it back: our grim hideout,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n half spoiled by clarity.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n