The Insulator

The plastic is pulled tight across the wood,

a drum of fake glass that smells like a shower curtain.

I did the best job that a person could

to make the boundary between us certain.

The streetlamp is a yellow, bloated thumb

pressed against the film from the other side.

Condensation gathers, cold and numb,

sliding down the sheet with nowhere to hide.

It’s a translucent wall for a transparent life.

I can see the world, but the draft still finds the knife.