Glass

The watery sage hues of bifocal like tiles
Found on patches of pavement in cities
Not far from the gutter dregs
Depict my vantage well.
As though posterior to the chlorine lens
I observe with utter desperation
The others interlope.
Wanting to join them so badly
But nothing gets through the sickly thick panes
No reaching the other side
When you’ve past the point of return.
It proves miserable as no hot water
On a February’s day of failure to begin with,
The tannic sense of being unable to love your lover.
When man’s procured gifts of nature betray us,
When the spirits are swayed by the underbelly
And we have nowhere to turn,
This place should never be known well.