The Glass Man

Obviously, life abhors clean windows:
grimy kids, slobbering dogs, fly-swatted
bugs—though what good are windows,
asked Pops, that hide what eyes would see?

From the beginning, he sprayed-and-wiped
away our budding double-hung creations.
Why, we wondered, did our ever-so-humble
yard and the pedestrian sprawl beyond
require pristine glass to be what they were?
Yet Pops never tired of searching the sameness
of the life we knew. Inside, we rampaged.
He didn’t need clarity. He needed sleep.

Bifocals and grandkids intensified his efforts
to restore each window to its showroom state.
Under our breaths, we dubbed him “Mr. Clean”.
Mrs. Clean worried. Pops just scoffed.

In wintry old age now, room to room he goes,
peering through his handiwork, as if to find
behind the customary faces of trees and flowers
and neighborhood some greater, elusive truth.
And come nightfall, there lurks the familiar
Glass Man, staring back at Pops from the dark,
each looking to the other for help
in seeing whatever they’re looking for.