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.


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