The window was perfect, not a scratch. Reflecting the fall day, wistfully watching the glimmer snatched from its face.
People taking the light, mirror images, opposite ways.
Beauty swayed by distortions of the
playing across its polished surface, given
purpose to shine.
The moments leading to it are fine; Christmas trees and children squeezing disguises, wondering what surprises await.
The window is perfect,
but it can break.
Troubles of glass that will fly out and catch in our bubbles, drive a steamroller through our walls of tunnel vision, scares away pigeons and
imprisons minds in a time capsule
under public squares.
The window can be smashed, but
it can also be spared.
I know you’re scared to wretch these slivers from there, but I love you, you’re fine. The media will opine and the guys on camera will grandstand, but hold my hand, because you are going to be just fine.
It’s their job to kill
a man to make a living,
neither yours or mine.
The window can hold many things; a sign or a ghost, the foam that soaks up clean attention. But the something that broke
(shattering collective minds)
and the grind of self-reflection come
to screeching halts,
overturned taxis on the
gunshots ringing just
blocks out of sight.
These things are no one’s fault, but
someone threw the stone that