A Different Kind Of Speaking

Hate to clean dirty
Windows, ghosts of laughter
From dates and peanut butter.
They hover like white shadows
On the pane of child asleep,
Like handprints on home.
I see through them
And cannot get clear
Without them, the printed past
Of slapped glass, high five.
Broken soon the idol which stood
By jumping jumping jumping—
Clean, a pillar quickly broken
By joy joy joy down in my heart.
Those little floating hands, that
Smudge, a slight against serious,
A gift I wish to never wipe away.