“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,”
but the pastor’s daughter thought,
“people who live in glass houses shouldn’t,”
because her life felt like a glass house
a fish bowl or a zoo exhibit
and it made her uncomfortable
until she saw the best level of comfort available to her
could be gained by smiling politely at the onlookers,
a docile captive relaxing on the concrete.
These days almost everyone I know lives in a glass house.
The glass is made of backlit screens
and you can project anything you want there
a polite smile, a superior sneer,
an angst-ridden mask of mystique
a hip air of disinterestedness
while inside your house you push keys, click mice,
and wrestle with your death wish
for a stone to come crashing through
bringing down the house,
letting in the weather.