by Kenneth Frost
Lowering
the lifeboat of
our platform from
the roof each day,
I sort of know
what escapees
of shipwrecks feel
looking in
at the portholes
like peeping toms.
On the top floor
I concentrate
on soaping up
and shining glass
so the roulette
wheel of sunlight
won’t skid my head
around its track.
As I move down,
sideways and down,
I read my life
in the headlines
my printing press
is slapping out:
“They didn’t know
that he was there
till he was not.”