It is important to note
at this time of woe:
It was not the broom's fault
though it suffered the most.
Telltale drops of blood like beads
decorate the white-washed wall,
but by all means, no one
must disturb the evidence.
Such humiliation, to be broken.
Poor thing can’t even cry
or die, but remains
piled piece by piece
upon its truly cracked-up self.
What beautiful fibers
cling roughly to form.
A handle, which was the body, knows
that sweeping is now a thing of the past
Broken, but not banished.
Worse than a stranger,
it was the long-lost boy,
dear and familiar,
who delivered the first blow.
But the second blow,
is what finished the deed;
sent splinters and ripped-out straw
to scatter across the floor.
Bring out the confetti.
Let us bury the scraps.
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