In praise of broken things
A salt glazed coffee cup
I bought in Edinburgh.
My mother used it for years
before its chips
and her arthritis got the best of her.
A barometer of cracked glass.
It must have been the glow
of warm mahogany that attracted him.
Broken before my father got it.
A green clay ash tray
of a man with a beard
and a huge, misshapen nose
my brother made in the third grade,
his baby fingerprints still
pressed into it.
Let us praise broken things.
Those shy and silly relics
beyond saving, wrapped in cast off love
and buried in the attic
of our all too human souls.
Scott Malby
Posted over on A Little Poetry
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