A poem

In memory of a broken trust

It didn’t seem like much.
Just a small bit of plastic, really.
It took only a small effort to shatter it.
So satisfying to see the
pieces fly about the room

In the wake of the violence,
shards are all that remain
Large chunks, easy to recognize,
small bits, lurking in a corner
All sharp edged, all broken,
beyond repair

It seemed so insignificant,
this bit of plastic
It can probably be replaced.
It can never be restored.
It is broken.
I broke it.

I clean up the shattered parts,
except the small bits that escape my gaze,
waiting to be found later,
perhaps to prick or to cut,
or be ground up,
becoming part of the fabric of our home.
It is broken, and it’s broken-ness
will be with us always

I cannot fix the broken pieces
I can only try to protect, to prevent
further injury

Dwayne Bailey
February 12, 2006