Poem: Window

Window

By Jessica Reidy
QuailBellMagazine.com

Though the windows shine and shine
and the lace is knotted up
like the clutch of cloth at a woman's throat
the windows are spidered with gloss and grime
and splotches grow, and flies crawl on past
the picture of the gate and the next-door row
made of cheap filigree and gossamer chain
packed with wax from the ash-crusted candle
the windows are dirty, you can see, you can see
the be-suited people crawling into cars
in the early morning when the moon is still heavy
and sagging in the sky like the mouth of the woman
who frowns next door when she takes in the bins
every Wednesday in the dark and the bad rain starts
and the cloth slides over the glass, over fog
leaving lint because it's stark poor quality
from the depressing store where rows of food and goods
are spotlighted like walls of things to get rid of, get
rid of these pictures of candy and bleach, get rid of the window
I'll get rid of that window in the cold, in damp heat
the fire will burn, the fire will burn all the tires
at the end of the street, stacked up at the end of the street
where the car burned last week, where the shop burned
last month and all the trees have lost their leaves
can see them fall from behind the window sheen
of flies and cat-hair and flies and I can see the breath
of wind that flutters the branches reaching deep
and flutters the garbage across the gravel-lawn
I can see movement out there, from where it's so still,
I can see movement out there.

This poem first appeared here.

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