As It Is Above (Downtown, Minneapolis)

I see the sun rise every morning through my windshield as I drive
my white Honda Accord into the Seventh Street parking garage.
I exit, with my briefcase and half-eaten bagel, click my alarm

"ARMED." I walk to the elevator heel to toe so I can hear
my steps echo in the garage. I ascend from bowels to building,
then burrow through six skyway corridors to my office. The brilliant

winter sun shining through the Plexiglas windows casts checker
board patterns on the neutral gray carpeting. I step in and out
of light; my pupils dilate and contract until I'm blind as a mole.

This is where I'm safe, floating in the warm recirculated air
that vaguely smells of caramel popcorn and ice cream. The neon
blinking lights of the restaurants and shoe stores mesmerize me.

I cannot hear the city running below me. I am deaf to the buses
and cars rumbling along Marquette, making room for each other
on the narrow old streets. I cannot hear those loud young boys

in starter jackets and slouching pants sing their morning greetings
to their girlfriends at the bus stop. I am insulated from the brisk
winter wind slicing through everyone else's coats and scarves.

I no longer need to wonder if those thick white clouds emanating
from everyone's mouths are composed of cigarette smoke or warm
exhaled air. I can walk, swaddled in silence, everywhere I need to go.