i'm watching from inside
a glass case,
the delicate pieces of time immemorial
arranged in displays around me,
layouts they memorize but never really notice.
when someone passes by
the pieces all quiver,
fragile ceramics in a chorus of jingles
trying to catch their attention.
but the sound becomes a part of the backdrop,
like the slightest groan of a floorboard beneath the rug
or the squeak of a cabinet door.
we rattle closer to the edge,
pressing our faces against the glass
to get a glimpse of home:
still-lifes done by a familiar hand,
worn wooden floors that don’t match the rest,
a room that hasn’t been painted in decades.
a few times each year
on special occasions
you open the cabinet door
and let us adorn the dinner table.
and then it’s back to our shelves,
watching from behind the glass,
waiting for a glimpse of home.