They look out of the fourth-story window
Watching that hawk kill every crow in mid-air
Against the early afternoon clouds
Above the crowded rush-hour streets
But no one seems to care.

As they descend the polished concrete staircase
Past the empty front desk
Along the sun-cracked pavement
Among the smeared sidewalk chalk and the lazily crushed beer cans
They catch a glimmer of a soul across the street.

Hazily behind the slow traffic
A face rippling through the waves off of an overheated car
They know that soul
All too well.

And their mind’s carelessly overflowing with stupid ideas
Like protecting all of the crows
Or letting themselves get inspired
Or actually reaching for the stars
Or literally doing the thing they love
Or marrying their high school sweetheart
The one who opened all the doors for them
And then shut them
The one who adorned their night sky with radiant candles
And then doused them
The one who painted their body with soft, respectful kisses
And then wiped them
The one who promised them a life worth living
And dreams worth dreaming
And a gaze worth staring
And a bond worth sharing
And then

The hawk's screech resonates across the urban canyon
And the bus arrives.

And the thing about dreams is that they’re all in your head
You made them yourself
They are perfect
But like all masterpieces,
They’re so personal it burns
And thus impossible to share.