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Somebody had plans
about the skylight
when they built it.
Somebody had
romance in mind,
and ambition
glowed in their hearts,
and that pane of glass
was a symbol,
a poem,
containing verses of
the space you can own
beyond yourself,
never mind that
you’re confined
by four walls and
the only monthly rent
your salary
would let you afford.
Somebody had enough wisdom
to capitalize on the soul
and its tendency
to conjure the infinite
out of a cloudless night,
to rename stars
again and again,
to entertain intimacy
with rain
after a long day’s work,
before closing its eyes.

And starving artists
like me
can fix their eyes up
when they don’t own
fancy clothes
and feel as rich
as they will dare
to keep them in place,
keep them dreaming
of lofty things:
for instance, sparkle
and a way to live
in grandeur
no matter what they
(don’t) have.

Four dingy flights of stairs
but I won’t
exchange this view
for all the money in the world.