Store Front

I had just passed by that same spot,

and looking back, saw a man staring

intently into a store front window,

the exact spot where all I saw,

walking fast on my way somewhere,

too busy to stop, as I have now, though,

delayed by stopping, was my own face

reflected at a glance, a warped image

of myself, darkly detailed, just that

and nothing more, myself flat

against a warped street and the bank

warped across the way, darkly

detailed, too, barely distinguished

from the warped images reflected there.

But he stared so intently, looking

beyond the glass at something, and waved,

his elbow a pivot point, his hand wavering

back and forth, ecstatic, and pointing

with his other hand, tapping the glass,

leaving behind his fingerprints smeared

and smudged, a tell-tale sign of lingering,

stopped and looking, me, too, now

standing here intently watching him, wondering

what had stopped him there, what had I missed

in rushing past, passing by in my haste.

Perhaps, it was myself I missed, a younger self

peering in, clearly reflected, seeing someone I knew,

old friends, new friends lost, or something

I’d always wanted, the train set I never got,

the wind-up toy that whirled and whirred,

whimsy, or the simple beauty found in a smile,

the play of light and dark on a canvas painted,

or perhaps it was a child waving first, the funny man

rushing by, the funny man waving back, stopping.