The window releases a gasp
of inside life,
of half voices and doors closing.
Delinquent sounds muddy the outside.
A car radio lips out
a samba, entertaining tapping fingers
and flowered dresses swaying.
Casual clouds, rugged images
cast to the street, sliding into alleys,
covering the homeless.
Café tables stream with words
As they flip over condiments, ice water
and pretentious menus.
Dreams are made from day,
dripping into night without sound.
Roger Singer 