We pause while he takes out
the window from his shop.
The fancy way he handles
your likeness makes us stop;
the way his violet glass
reflects your better side,
sharpening with sunlight
the tongue in cheek you hide,
until two yellow gloves
release you from the glare,
tip you out, conceal you
up sleeves of dusty air,
where either I must follow
or, back before you’ve gone,
be thankful that he’s left me
this frame to rattle on.
