Shekinah Glory

Even on this rainy day
The bright light hurts my eyes
And without a hint of irony
Palm trees grow in Northern Virginia.
They have no fear of reaching
The steel and glass ceiling
Webbed above their tops.
At a table a man throws bread
From his egg McMuffin on the floor
To beckon a few birds
Who have escaped to this larger cage.
It is quiet enough to hear
A saxaphone play a sad tune
From hidden speakers.
It is accompanied by rattling metal chairs
Sliding across peach colored tiles
By people speaking languages
I never learned in high school.
Customer service representatives
Check their hair in their kiosk’s mirrors
While steam tables are filled
With international feasts
By bleary eyed cooks.
The woman with a broom
Cocks her head puffing her polyester vest.
She wipes a group of tables
Darting her head from side to side
So that she can quickly catch
Each movement in her vision.
In a window mannequins
Are moved by a firm grip
On their shocking half skulls
Wearing dresses that they
Only change out of weekly.
Like the most efficient factory
People ascend and descend on conveyers
Staring out into our tropical paradise.
“Fashion, you’ve already got fashion issues.”
A smartly dressed woman declares
While shaking her head into a black cell phone.

It feels as if this place
Is not intended for us.
Yet, for some reason
We all feel right at home.