from the window by James Morehead

from the window

dearborn station's clock approaches 2:15

   from the window

perspective rows of snow-stained brick
red and brown and weathered yellow
stretch back through infinite fog and shadow

   from the window

rooftop smoke scatters like startled pigeons
through trees naked and silent
lining the tired boulevard

   from the window

victorian dolls face inward
with crafted expressions and painted eyes
warmed by lavender fringed petticoats

   from the window

listen carefully and
hear muted whispers of the city
distant sirens that race unseen sorrows

   from the window

the chair across from me lies still
empty
and waiting