Poem #7: The Glass House

His shoes were an expensive barrier
keeping his toes away from the marble floors;
they were nice to look at, anyway, but not meant for touching.
The same was true of the lions protecting the narrow hallway
to his bedroom, where delicate things awaited his use.
The windows were thin and he liked them that way --
it put him closer to that fantastic city view, made him feel
as if he could reach out and touch all of that crystal glittering below.
The furniture was not made for people of any excess except wealth.
Brown leather, all imported, all vulnerable to anything sharper than a fingernail
backed against walls carefully clothed with etched paper, also imported,
that would not stand for being leaned against.
It took him ten years, but he kept his vow.
When he left the hard world of dirt behind,
where everything he owned had to withstand a variety of uses
he told himself he would learn one thing and do it so well
that he would never have to be his brush or a crude tool,
but a specialty surrounded by singular implements of like function,
that they would all do one thing well,
they would be delicate
and they would be his.
Now, with his brutish hands he held his demitasse
and toasted -- here’s to the dream and the trappings thereof
and may these soft things never remind him
of how hard he has become.