Who wrote this window-washing poem?

Could have been me. I labeled it “Window Washing CC” as if it were mine. But I’ve no memory of writing it. If you have a clue, lmk?

Photo by Jay Wennington on Unsplash

I let the window washers in at 8

showed them how the top windows popped out.

The new one from Ukraine didn’t have English.

The other guy I’d seen before.

You could tell he knew his stuff by

the way he wore his rags in his pockets.

I went off for coffee,

told them to please be careful we didn’t need an insurance claim.

The owner called me from the retirement home,

Asked if I’d found somebody to take the fridge.

You know nobody wants a fridge from 1972.

But I won’t tell her and break her heart.

20 minutes later with latte in hand,

I returned to find the Ukrainian at the foot of the 40-foot ladder,

one hand draped listlessly over a rung while he smiled at his cell phone.

Above, where the ladder flexed and whimpered,

the monkey man formed a letter K, cigarette on his lip,

his right toes grazing the window ledge, right arm squeegeeing as far as he could reach.

The Ukrainian saw my whitened face,

white knuckled his grip as if that would help.

I left again lest a drama unfold I didn’t want to witness.

Those windows with the bay view so sunny now,

you can’t tell if the window is open or not,

except for that 50-cent piece the monkey man missed.