These are but reflections regarding imperfections in a pane of glass
with rag in hand and glance towards reddening fire bush, the tin clock
in the hallway can be heard ticking sixty beats per minute, perfect
heart rate quieter than yesterday's royal dousing, unintentional,
of tea, the metal travel mug bouncing end over end, hitting the old
wooden steps, worn and bereft of carpeting, now glistening with tannin.
Who needs to pledge allegiance, alliance, alienation when you can
whistle like those happy birds soaring trapped in supermarket ceilings or
sing nonsense like somebody's captive children always in waiting rooms
scampering and scattering pamphlets, pirouetting on tiny feet then
suddenly drained of energy, curling up in impossible positions like
cats after catnip or spoon licking the last bits of cat gravy from cans?
The window hears all this and more but is unconcerned about the
drip of white exterior paint, the peeling away and caulk that should
have lasted longer than thirty years or less, but who is counting in
this world that shakes and shatters each according to their needs?
If you look past the minor distortion to gain perspective or close
your careless curtains, the occasional drip-drop, tip-top-tapping
Like nervous fingers, bitten to the quick and the dead as well
we should salute you, bow down, be the better person, be the change
but we cannot, not yet for timing is everything and words wither
while above, it's only light rain almost ice almost snow almost hail
Mother Mary pray for us sinners underneath our awkward skylights
receiving Morse code communion scene through last light of day's end.