Window Washer

My husband hates to wash windows.
Our longtime joke—we’ll move again
before it’s time to wash them. So,

nose-burning bucket of ammonia water
in one hand, squeegee in the other,
tired old tee-shirts draped over my arm,
I survey this anti-archival chore.

The sliding glass door presents its evidence:
fingerprints, spaniel drool and nose prints,
wind blown dust, a feather pasted with blood.

I wet, wipe, squeegee, dry edges, corners,
glide open the door, cross the track, repeat.
Door open, I stand astride, tilting my head
left, right, to see what remains: a film,

echoes of an interiorexterior viewpoint,
like those black-and-white drawings—
are they vases or faces? we ask ourselves.

[This poem was first published in the online Cherry Blossom Review, which I have just learned is going offline--defunct.]