Plastic Veil

Thin sheets cling to the window,

waving slow with the drip-drip

from a leaky faucet’s lazy rhythm.

The light slips crooked,

distorted shapes, backyard bent

and swimming behind scratched plastic.

A curtain half-stuck to glass,

faded, worn, and trembling,

swollen with sun and small shadows.

The air smells damp, a plastic veil

between inside and out,

stretched tight across cracked tiles,

a membrane holding the world,

just barely.