His nose blurs 

from this side of the pane. 


Fingertip smudges blot fine lines, 

swipe detail sideways, 

sweep across oval beige

that begs my eyes for clarity. 


On seeing an emblem—

an unconceived sketch. 

Nameless by distance

and fingertip prints, 

by steps, uncounted, from car door

to coffee shop. This pane, a film.


I fill his face with my stories.

A name into his nose’s bridge,

a wife across his bottom lip, 

purpose in his jagged jawline—

his blur, a wanting canvas. 


Framed, made real. 

This pane, a gallery. 

Blur eclipses behind a car door, closing. 

Stories rev with his engine.


Leave me to witness 

a streetside exhibit, 

anonymous things.