Waiting for the Glazier

brokenwindow

Waiting for the Glazier

The glazier comes, although my wait
has lasted all the day. A stone escaped,
flew a small boy’s hand, and it happened
through my kitchen pane. Such fear,

indeed, I saw in those small eyes until
I said it was all poor chance, bad luck,
and the stone’s own fault. And so I wait
through this day, the glazier’s arrival

long delayed. I wait same as air, heavy
with cold as fog levels the ground to grey.
These three months of winter, too prolonged,
and how protracted my journey’s become.

 

 

 

Found and Remixed from Bleak House
and my 1991 Winter Journal

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