Mid-morning, from their rat-maze of desks
the men begin to file
by the south window
pretending their way to the copier,
water cooler, carrying naked
folders, empty envelopes.
Across the street she appears
in her window just above
the mannequins so tightly
clothed and pouting –
her shower over, she dries
off with a blush-pink towel
liquid, global motions
her bottom roaming the window
too much, too circular
to just be toweling.
“She knows you’re watching,”
“She’s doing it on purpose,”
I tell them in the cafeteria
when they brag, over their limp
vegetables and cans of diet soda.
Returned to their brown desks
they flip through charts
take mildly-important calls
bark over the panels in percents,
their timeclocks of desire run
down for the afternoon
but still they believe in her
innocence, that she notices
no window, is just wiping dry
their emptiness.