Ann Privateer

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.