A Fifty-Cent Glass - By Louise Minch

The glass broke and so did I . . . 

crash upon the floor. 

"No more!" I cried. 

The car, the kids, the bills, 

the peeling paint. 

The lock just broke. 

I cannot cope with more. 

And so, I lay upon the floor 

with this cheap glass 

in pieces everywhere. 

I just don't care. 

Let someone else 

clean up the mess. 

For I am underneath myself 

and will not be 

called out again. 

I will not stand 

and watch the roof 

fall on my head. 

I'll lie instead 

upon the floor 

until no more 

disasters come. 

I cannot bear 

just one more broken door 

or chair. 

And don't you dare 

ask me why I lay and cry 

in such a mess, 

over a broken fifty-cent glass.

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