I sit
Watching
Holding something tight in my folded
Laced fingers
Holding a prayer, perhaps
Most likely
But also something silent and explosive
I listen through the window
To a world that cackles
And scoffs
Until it is hoarse
At the idea that somehow
There is still a chance for something classic
And beautiful
To exist
Not something tacky or vintage
Not something clichéd or overdone
But something precious and timeless
Sits graciously with patience
Inside my praying hands
And I hold my fingers loose
So as not to
Crush it
