Aimee Mann

From the 22nd floor
Walking down the corridor
Looking out the picture window down
On Sycamore
While perspective lines converge
Rows of cars and buses merge
All the sweet green trees of Atlanta burst
Like little bombs
Or little pom-poms
Shaken by a careless hand
That drives them off
And leaves again
Life just kind of empties out
Less a deluge than a drought
Less a giant mushroom cloud
Than an unexploded shell
Inside a cell
Of the Lennox Hotel
On the 22nd floor