wears a face so brave
it holds up through tremors, subways . . .
At last one dawn it has dropped,
dealt blows by his rich-toned clock.
A stammer, a shrug––red wine.
From his door Will searches the rain.

And for a long while wanders
down an office hall––
by nine heads bowed in a row,
each sunk to his dictating phone.
So the hours mount with mail,
a paper-weighted wall.

Midnight.  Straggling miles
through downtown streets grown quiet,
he teeters back from a glimpse––
bald griffins!––that shadows him
like the jagged line of towers. . . .
Far-off, his cry resounds.

Will fades at a lamp and chair.
Incessant February––
past windows cramped with snow
needling storms unfold.
Yet somehow he works up his arms
to wipe the pane’s wet blur.

by Jeff Grinnell, c2016

photo from through