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Pieces

Broken Window

 


 

The simple quiet.

How fallen leaves clog the gutters, 

how our dirty mop swings from an old rusted 

flower pot hanger. 

The garage door is 

crooked, 

sags to one side 

like a smirking friend; 

it leaks a little, 

yeah, 

but we all leak a little. 

This ample quiet creates a stillness. 

Some peace in this deterioration. 

Something so natural to be a part of, isn’t it?

like cracking and emptying an egg so we can fill the belly. 

There’s a broken sheet 

of a double-pane window 

on the front of the house that has blood on it, 

and it’s my blood; 

and much like 

a purring and 

sleeping cat in your lap, 

or a wild porcupine the bear regretfully attacks,  

it’s not much of a threat unless

you choose to mess with it;

both the bear 

and myself, we chose poorly, 

so we must learn

or repeat our mistakes.

Blood having spilled,

like nature 

having sliced 

her own wrists, because

the bear and I are her;

we are nature. 

Sometimes we get in our own way

and need to move over, take one step to the right.

Other times, you give every piece you’ve

got.

Sometimes, for moments,

we sit and intelligently do

little to nothing, looking on to say,

“Well…would you look. at. that.”  

Much like a sleeping cat in my lap, 

or a bull snorting in my direction,

or a German Shepherd snarling through his fence; 

yeah, 

I don’t much mess with that window.

 

 

art by Christopher Vest

 


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