Glasses pushed into his hair
he stands before the window
drowning in drops and rivulets
that stream across cool glass.
He splays his hand against bubbled pane.
Orange light from the street lamp
settles on a misty evening
weighing it down,
holding hostage, in different glow,
images and facades
that long to fade and sleep.
On a street below
wheels of cars
hiss at each other, spraying
dirty water into the air, onto sidewalks.
The man in the coat with contorted sleeve
sits under the arch of the old bank across the way,
dozing beneath a cardboard blanket.
A woman in tall black boots,
looking cold,
opens a ladybug umbrella
as she crosses to the bus stop
a red scarf, not unlike the one
Sophia wore two years ago to the day,
keeps her neck warm.
Steam from his #1 Best Man mug
condenses on his cheeks, his nose.
He lifts his hand
from the glass,
wondering at the fleeting imprint
of the fragmented life line
left in its wake.
Smoky Quartz 