By CJ Evans
The women in pencil
skirts spill from towers
and let down all
their disarming hair.
They hold caramel
glasses of whiskey
with sweet vermouth
as men with undone
cuffs speak something
secretive into the felt-
lined boxes of their
ears. The thunder
of planes is ignored,
and the four o'clock
flowers are fully
open. Their laughter
is a siren, echoing
among the buildings.
And they don't look
as the white parachutes
drift down to them
like dandelion seeds.
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