smudges on the glass
were wiped away each night
by a mute custodian
who found a biography
in each set of prints he made disappear
with clean cloth and vinegar
he could tell which ones
were made by children, dragged there
with promise of ice cream, later
oh, the young lovers' prints
were unmistakable--eager tracks being led to more
and more promising carats
and the thin marks left by the frail
made him wonder, if this would be their last
precious purchase: a reckoning; a remorse
the cases held diamonds, rubies,
by the score, but the silent sentinel
saw only the surface
that was his world,
one of transparency, and fickle
reflections
he reluctantly erased these fingered tales
the marks life left anon and anon, for he knew
it was his duty to wipe the slate clean
to allow resurrection,
renewed vision of a bejeweled
world, just below his sight