First The Dustpan

“Don’t be afraid of breaking.
Remember, a broken window doesn’t
need to be opened.”

This is how I am greeted
by the daily mail —
with a well-meant and empty platitude

that makes me laugh and rage
about how much else is true 
of a broken window.

I put my head down in my covers
and start a list in response:
remember,

a broken window is not
to be trusted — you can get cut that 
way, you could put an eye out

with a shard from a broken window. A broken
window lets in all manner of pests
and danger.  A broken

window is an excuse for cops to 
enter your life.  A broken window
is the natural track of a brick,

a bullet, a flash-bang, a grenade,
a Molotov cocktail.  A broken window
is a thief of heat and safety.

A broken window makes a sound 
once — it cries out upon being born
and then all you hear after that

is a voice poured through it, a voice
not its own, function of wind
or rain or distress.

A broken window may never
have been meant to be opened.
It may have been a poor church’s

lone glory, or the last line of defense 
for a shivering soul. A broken window
is evidence of a violent change

and you don’t know
what led to it;
maybe you could try helping out

with a dustpan and broom
before offering a philosophy
lesson? Help clean it up. Help.