Out the window high
	above the street I see
	the traffic light
	hanging. On everyday occurrence
	up out of
	reach, beyond chance for contact.
	Directing me afar as I
	sit in the confines of my car completely
	isolated realm
	that could not possibly stretch
	past this region of beneath. But
	here in apartment's window it's
	now only arm's lengths
	away and I could jump
	to it if I wished.
	It is not quite at hand,
	in reach nonetheless:
	its distance practical as
	an ornament atop the tall Christmas tree, as
	a gutter for the acrophobic cleaner.
	Forever untouchable, but in this place
	we have
	an ephemerally intimate relationship
	like
	the enticing woman whom with I make eye contact across the room but know full well we will never meet.
Copyright 1997 John Feissel. All rights reserved.