Trace Elements

I was supposed to be calling the bank but the Windex

was closer, and the streaks on the glass felt like

something I could actually fix, then I saw it,

down low near the frame—a greasy map of whorls

and ridges, the oil of a small hand pressed hard

against the view of the street.

The sun hit the grease and turned it purple,

an iridescent ghost of whoever stood there

while I was in the back or staring at a wall,

and I stopped the rag before I could wipe it out,

studying the signature of a stranger who wanted

to see something I usually keep the curtains closed against.