he looks as wax.  He moves
and speaks with mouth
and feet. So, he’s alive. But I can’t
rub my hand on his stubble,

the growth poking out
from his morning shave. I can’t
smell the salt on his breath from
the pretzels he ate

between the calls, or touch
the softness of his navy sweater. I stand
still, holding myself together. He can’t hear
the flutter of my heart. He doesn’t hold me

in his arms. His hands sit deep inside
his pockets. And I’ll shoot off
as a rocket, landing on Mars. I don’t leave
my fingerprints on the glass. I won’t

stain the view of the kaleidoscope of gray
and blue.