Fabric covered with gravel,
the weight presses me down,
the sun burns down from overhead,
the wind in through a small hole,
directly ahead is my only relief.

From twenty stories below me,
the sounds of the city rise,
hot dogs and coffee smells waft by,
the sounds of airport's flights overhead.

Through a small pane of glass,
I watch the world marred by a cross,
silent, patient, watching wind speeds,
men, women cars, trucks, all being watched.

Searching slowly through my small window,
for a particular face, male, large cheek scar,
blonde hair, parted to the left, glasses,
Armani suit, charcoal, matching briefcase.

Seventy-two hours, barely moving,
cross now moving across the sidewalk,
faces, faces, wait back one last person,
smug scarred face, positive identification.

Following out of the Starbucks onto the walk,
slowly tracking, out into the open park,
finger slowly creeping taking up the slack,
breathing composed, even, easy.

Nothing behind him, all alone now,
finish the squeeze, a punch to my shoulder,
a balloon pops in the park and birds fly,
a body not moving now lying in green grass.

A business man rides down the elevator,
briefcase in hand, tailored suit,
strolls casually out into the street,
non-descript, disappearing into the crowd.