I bide my time with a rolled up magazine:
when the sunlight's lure gazes upon the pane
one successful whack
will crush my distraction.
There comes that trail of red
when the corpse pushes down the glass,
and a secret twinge inside the stomach.
Traces of distractions were dried and vast
And the casual devastation demanded
one's most human reflection:
I ought to clean my windows more often.