Glass on tiles is from broken dishes is from walking home.
Trying to find where you live is picking up jagged pieces is wrapping the **** from the contact of the sharp corner colliding with your skin.
Dropping the plates feels like 8 PM feels like asking you to pass the salt.
Broken mugs are glued together like an antique puzzle,
fragment by fragment found one under the table,
found one I stepped on it.
Almost reversed except for the lines running around it,
the memory and experience also regret.
It still works if you're in need of a mug but always drips a little from a crack the glue couldn't fill.
Bought some new dishes fixed the kitchen sink fixed the glass on the tiles.
Found new tiles found new reasons to break some new dishes.
Forgot to wrap the **** it'll heal anyway
forgot to ask to pass the salt the plates dropped themselves.
Feels like 8 PM feels like 9 feels like 10.
Put the broken dishes away buy some more glue later.
First attempt at conceit poetry, written for a class assignment.
