{"id":6958,"date":"2011-04-27T10:05:52","date_gmt":"2011-04-27T15:05:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.berkshirelinks.com\/?p=6958"},"modified":"2011-04-27T10:05:52","modified_gmt":"2011-04-27T15:05:52","slug":"window-washer-poem-by-christopher-todd-matthews","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/window-washer-poem-by-christopher-todd-matthews\/","title":{"rendered":"Window Washer, poem by Christopher Todd Matthews"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><strong><em>Window Washer<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n<p>One hand slops suds on, one<br \/>\nhustles them down like a blind.<br \/>\nBrusque noon glare, filtered thus,<br \/>\nloosens and glows. For five or<br \/>\nsix minutes he owns the place,<br \/>\ndismal coffee bar, and us, its<br \/>\nhuddled underemployed. A blade,<br \/>\nblack line against the topmost glass,<\/p>\n<p>begins, slices off the outer lather,<br \/>\nflings it away, works inward,<br \/>\ncorrals the frothy middle, and carves,<br \/>\nwith quick cuts, the stuff down,<br \/>\nnot looking for anything, beneath<br \/>\nor inside. Homes to the last,<br \/>\ncleans its edges, grooms it for<br \/>\nthe end, then shaves it off<\/p>\n<p>and flings it away. Which is<br \/>\nsplendid, and merciless. And all<br \/>\nin the wrist. Then, he looks at us.<br \/>\nWe makers of filth, we splashers<br \/>\nand spitters. We sitters and watchers.<br \/>\nWho like to see him work.<br \/>\nWho love it when he leaves<br \/>\nand gives it back: our grim hideout,<br \/>\nhalf spoiled by clarity.<\/p>\n<p>        by <strong>Christopher Todd Matthews<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>American Life in Poetry: Column 318. BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006<\/p>\n<p>I love poems that take pains to observe people at their tasks, and here\u2019s a fine one by Christopher Todd Matthews, who lives in Virginia.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Window Washer One hand slops suds on, one hustles them down like a blind. Brusque noon glare, filtered thus, loosens and glows. For five or six minutes he owns the place, dismal coffee bar, and us, its huddled underemployed. A blade, black line against the topmost glass, begins, slices off the outer lather, flings it [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6958","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","category-uncategorized","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6958","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6958"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6958\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6958"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6958"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/idealpoetry.com\/rwc\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6958"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}