Hey you there, 
sipping your tea 
behind the glass wall enclosing 
just another shop, 
that I pass every now and then 
as I step carefully on these 
glass covered streets, 
squinting around shards
that glare too brightly
in the sun. 

Funny how 
even though there’s this wall, 
I can still see you. 

Your stance is a little like a rigid vase
that can’t move around too much
or else it might crack, 
                                   or even break. 
Your face is a little like that mug 
I keep in the back cupboard for tea, 
worn down on the edges, 
a familiar thing 
                         not familiar enough 
that it whispers the best spot
to grip its handle, so that 
I don’t spill  
burning, yellow chamomile.
And when you lift your tea, 
you notice me– 
wave, press your hand against the glass and I 
wave, press my hand against the glass
and after a moment, 
the prism of yellows 
dancing through the wall 
bounce, disappear into porous eyes that used to read me stories about silly goats
melt, distort the smile that blooms at the lightest scent of lily in the valleys
because you know that if you talked, 
I wouldn’t hear 
would never hear;
glass 
is built steadily to do its job. 
Hey you there, it’s funny how 
the only thing I can do through this glass, 
is see you.