Corelle

A plate shattered on the floor today
(it was not my fault).
It was somewhat of a surprise because
they are supposed to be rather unbreakable.
When I was younger, doing dishes,
I would drop the cups on the tiled floor
to watch them bounce a few times
before finishing the horrendous task
of washing dishes for eight or nine people.

My sister (smallest) walked right into the room
(I suppose she was curious)
although she knew the plate was broken.
As she stood there, a shocked look appeared,
the sort that can only come when slivers
of some foreign substance suddenly
seem to be
too close to uncovered feet.

It reminded me of those who find their coffins
in the rafters or the crypts of decrepit homes
and churches,
with polished granite slabs telling lies about memory.

In New York City
I placed a coin on the grave of Alexander Hamilton.
It seemed appropriate.
Did he have golden disks to cover his eyes?
Does Charon accept American currency?

I often find myself in a room where there
is apparently something quite demolished,
but with frequency I cannot tell
if it is a small sloughing off of my skin and soul
or else a deeper, more sinister
trap that I myself had laid.

When something is truly broken at the joints
and nothing but a core remains,
sometimes if the center of a person
maintains enough gravity it can
(unlike the horses and men of the Shah)
place most things again into their proper places,
but after a time entropy makes slaves of us all.