The wine glass shatters,
its pedestal
an egregious tooth beneath
the base cabinet.
Like a wide smile I sweep
slivers
in a glittering arc. Shoo, shoo.
Two crouched cats
already on the window sill.
One day, I’ll wear
slippers, I’ll watch where
I place things, look
both ways before crossing
the streets of Indecision
and Dare.
In theory, cleaning up after is meditation,
or it is regret. Either
way I talk to myself
the same as to wary
crows who forget no bad deed.
Over-shoulder, backwards
glances. Incessant rain.
I am grateful for their
wings. The implied flight
away.
Here I stand on impudent feet.
Wood chips. Porcelain splits
as though seamed.
In
cracks and carpets glass shards amplify
a thousand mistakes. Some
nights
I am one, others a
different matter altogether.
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