ALL WINDOWS DOWN
From the train window I see
light ricochet off broken bottles
blue, green, brown shards, chunks
glisten along the tracks
curve in the apex of a sidewalk,
blunted against a building
glass fallen back to earth
after traveling from beach
sand to glass blower. Someone
crafted a perfect shape
glass both delicate and strong
a container for many that came
unglued, laid out in mosaic rubble
patina oxide, ghostly hues
the color of pearls, lives formed
and then discarded, out of fashion.
A glass lip some how severed whole
from the neck, an intact ring both
jagged and smooth
edged to wear on the index finger.
The suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio was a good place to live. Growing up, Ann Privateer was thrilled to walk on icy pond water in shirt sleeves each spring. California offered an affordable way to complete college. She married, they moved north and raised a family. Now Ann spend part of the year in Paris, France teaching her granddaughter English. Her poems have appeared in Manzanita, Poetry Now, Tapestries, and Tiger Eyes to name a few.