Lords of our tiny
skull-sized kingdoms,
peering out alone
from the rectangular
center of our world,
we don’t have to scroll far
to see ourselves
as we are,
our flaws naked as
our virtues.

But looking at others,
through all these
glass windows
we only see them,
(double tapping them)
on their terms,
from their side of
the glass,
the side they present
to the world –
confident
composed
magnanimous,
securely embedded
in their
community,
warmly wrapped
in their loved ones,
their lives like
like finished
works of
art.

From this side,
the glass feels smooth,
there are no cracks.
We can’t get close
enough to see
how insecure
their footing,
how fragile their
facade.
How many years
of care
went into preparing
their persona?
How many other
hands gathered
to shape their
lives?

All of this
of course,
a designed illusion,
a trick of the brain.
Intuitively
we know
or we should know
how it all collapses
when the pocket windows close
and the wooden doors open,
yet we preen and pose
catlike,
haughty,
ageless,
from our side of
these pristine,
polished
rectangular
coffins of
glass.

Glass Coffins

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