Her windows are foggy,
Unclean with smiles.
The glass is dirty only on the inside
And no amount of exterior scrubbing
Can remove one smudge.
Still, they are clear.
Clear enough to see the rumpled bed sheets,
The empty plate,
The spilled juice.
Shadows pass through the rooms
Eating food from the fridge,
Opening the tap,
Changing nothing.
Everything is translucent,
Intangible,
And no one can right the glass.

Poetry Magazine