i suppose i really should
write something
exquisitely dainty and
poetic, like:

the breath of butterflies,
moves me beyond
the trials of daily life.

but standing here,
barefoot,
in the kitchen,
on crutches,
with my crying
toddler on the bench
and his breakfast
on the floor, along with
one hundred plus shards
of broken glass and ceramics
all i can truthfully write is:


****!!!

but at least the cat is happy.