We are on the seventh floor of our buildings,
across the street from one another.
I see you every day, shoes off, heavily leaning
onto an elbow, hunched over the phone
protectively. Below your office, a health club,
a pool. Early in the day, women
in black suits slip in and out of the teal water,
their hair or caps glossy as sealskin.
To the left, the treadmills, four across. Upper
torsos, pumping arms, horses anxious
in their stalls. Is it nearness or privacy we crave,
neighbor? I watch you, and fill in your
silence: the copy machine spitting out sheets
behind you, the clink of her hand
on the metal ladder as she pulls her body from
the pool, the phone bleating
until you to touch it. Answer it so that a voice
might fill your ear. Answer.