Plate Glass Window
May 3 2008


My brother once walked through a plate glass window
when we were kids.
Floor-to-ceiling glass, beside an open door.
OK, not exactly through it;
more bounced-back, with a bloodied nose.
Now, he goes through life that way
— peering ahead
hands out front, feeling his way;
as if invisible barriers
penned him in.

Me, I no longer trust glass,
that such transparent stuff
could be solid, substantial.
So I keep my distance,
my nose never pressed-up to windows
past the 2nd floor.
And I only sip from ceramic mugs.
And driving
I flinch a lot.
After all, don’t they say that matter is mostly empty space
and solid surface
mere illusion?
And if our molecules vibrated a certain way
we could pass right through it,
slipping sideways
seamlessly.

So sometimes, we’re impregnable,
tempered triple safety glass.
And sometimes we’re transparent,
ghosting through life
over-looked, unaware.
And sometimes
with the slightest touch
we tinkle into tiny little pieces,
fragile crystal
showering down
— a heart-stopping crash,
then a thousand lethal shards.

Until the dust settles,
and a man comes along, wearing gloves
and sweeps us up.