By Kindra McDonald
 
To you, who dangle from ropes
like so many spiders yelling
“left” – “right” to men eight stories
above you. While a crane obeys
your command and swings you
pendulous from pane to pane.
 
To you strapped to a seat belt heavy with buckets,
the burdens of your wage. You wash
in straight lines, wipe in circles,
pull muddied water from your blade
with rags you throw like diseased birds to the ground.
 
You are careful not to watch your
reflection hanging out into air
hovering above concrete.
However blindly you grope
swaying from sun streaked mirror to mirror
you rappel down and pause, soles
above soft lawn, land sure footed
on our turning marvel.
 
To you, in this trapeze act
who keep rising higher, we could be witnesses.
Astonished each time we suffer
the solid ground beneath our feet.
 
 

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