He Dreamed of an Open Window

He dreamed of an open window
and it frightened him so much
he never told his wife how he thought he might
jump and kill himself
or be able to fly and never come back.
Maybe take the first old freighter in the harbor
to Thailand or Alaska
and sit smoking the pipe she hated
on the rusting deck, watch
the water change color every hour from
the solemn pink of dawn to the luminous moment
each night, thrilled by
the water glittering brightly, holding the sun
as the sky turned navy.
So open in his twenties, his heart
shrank to a deep fist that kept on beating
in spite of him
after nothing was left to talk about but
the filthy pigeons who nested on the balcony
despite all efforts to drive them away.
There must be freighters leaving every day
from San Pedro, leaving for some place
he wanted to go,
carrying him away from the dark suits in his closet, the row
of black and brown shoes,
the dull eyes that looked back at him in the mirror.
Hadn't thought of the water since he'd stopped sailing
and that was when he started to lose his shine, no longer stung
awake by cold spray as he cleared
the breakwater.
But an open window!
He inhaled sharply.
First he would research the pigeon problem,
find the right combination of netting and poison,
Then he would leave.