Through the Glass

You stand inside and look out at me, a picture of the past

In your newsboy cap and your properly tied scarf.

I could think you a tintype, were you cast in sepia.

I could see you a young Englishman—all manners

And a dashing accent.  Eyes full of shine and sin.

A smile of confidence and danger.

What would you do, man of a century ago?

Would you work with your hands? Or use

That sharp wit caught in the curve of your lip?

Would you smell of leather, cologne, and sweat?

Or only of the scotch you drink on the rocks,

Ice clinking as you sit behind your father’s desk?

Would you love me then, in another place and time?

A carpenter’s daughter, would she fit in that world?

Would she love you for all your secrecy and silence?

Then you move—look away, maybe never see me at all.

The photograph vanishes, save the negative in my head.

I sigh and start to walk away, still carrying these questions.

© 2007, Kerri L. Bennett

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