The women in pencil
skirts spill from towers

and let down all
their disarming hair.

They hold caramel
glasses of whiskey

with sweet vermouth
as men with undone

cuffs speak something
secretive into the felt-

lined boxes of their
ears. The thunder

of planes is ignored,
and the four o'clock

flowers are fully
open. Their laughter

is a siren, echoing
among the buildings.

And they don't look
as the white parachutes

drift down to them
like dandelion seeds.