The plastic bag

Four floors up my morning routine pauses,
I keep watch in that quiet moment,
leaning on the window-sill, fogging the glass,
I slip away and wait, watch the street
even if he makes me late.
 
“He’s here” I say out loud,
loud enough to clang the jailer's key
but there’s only me inside.
Outside the day blows all things east
everyone has to walk at an angle.
 
He marches in polished shoes,
pressed trousers needle
through a forced open raincoat,
the button straining as much as his face,
he never sees me,
whatever the weather.
 
I would normally watch all his steps
but today the wind has filled a plastic bag,
it moves like a Chinese dragon
towards my window,
breathing fire into my face.
Then it’s gone and I chase its tail
back towards the pavement.
 
He has been watching the same
spiraled dance.
His gaze puts a hand inside me,
pressing my boiled up blood,
it pushes me from the window
then pulls me back,
forced to look again,
 
He's still there
smiling up at me,
 
I tremble as I wave.