I was walking through my building at work here in the Sears Tower when I saw a woman looking really sad, leaning against the glass window and looking down at the street below. I began to imagine things about her and her life that I'm sure I pulled out of thin air. Anyway, I never write poetry, nor do I have much use for it unless I put some movement to it and stick it in Too Much Light. But this one didn't seem appropriate for that. So maybe it can live here for awhile:

Do not dream of flying
Or tearing flesh away
Or falling those ten stories so your husband will
Remember
Those forgotten curves
And insulated nooks once touched with trembling
Hands.

Hold fast to your floor.
Keep your hands at your sides
And insulate your dreams
Of death
With musings melancholic.
It’s what all the grownups do
When they wish they could fly.