Glass Skin

They tore down the bookstore, just

a patch of dust one day, then cranes.

I didn't notice, not at first.

Just another space, where memory wanes.

Now it's glass, all angles, cold and bright,

reflecting the afternoon, a brutal glare.

Makes you squint. Makes you feel small, out of sight,

like you were never even there.

It swallows light, throws it back,

a silent, glittering indifference.

The street just keeps its hurried track.

What was lost? No consequence.

Just new. And tall. And sharp.

No room for softer, older, harp-

ing on the past. Just shine. And hard.