It’s not the glass;
but the shattered world
and its elections
and the wars
and your father’s suffering
and the long days of
waiting to grieve
and the way he reached up
with his shaking hands
after days of nothing
and said Thank you
to the nurse
for his morphine
and the way your face broke
in reply
and not these shards
at my feet.
These are just
what was once,
once a glass.