The Filter

The sun is trying to get inside

but the window is holding a grudge.

I sit here with my crusts and crumbs

watching the sky turn to sludge.

A fingerprint from a month ago

refracts the orange into a bruise.

Grease streaks catch the dying glow

like evidence I’m born to lose.

I should find the spray and the cloth

and wipe the summer from the pane.

But it’s easier to sit in the dark

and let the glass take all the blame.