Surface Tension

The window is streaked with a film of old grease,

where the rain and the traffic never quite cease.

He says the word softly, a heavy, gold thing,

that hits like a stone in the bell of a ring.

I look at the saucer, the burger half-gone,

and the crumpled-up towel he's leaning upon.

My face in the glass is a blur and a lie,

a stranger I’d never pick out passing by.