Darcy Mueller
A pitcher and two cups of glass
Adorn the table
The pitcher holds only water
Everything is clear
There are not secrets here
The chairs stair from either side
Filled by bodies that host untrusting eyes
No hands reach for a glass
There is no smudge of fingerprints
Everything can be seen
Nothing is hidden when all is clean
Instead, hands rest on laps
When eyes stare blankly ahead
Shadows fall through the table and hit the floor
Monotony blooms in this silent lore
The four walls of wood entrap
The table made of glass
The two men stare
Neither reaches
Neither speaks
But only let time pass
As they look past the table made of glass