eventually
it broke.
(the vase)
sure, I had to throw it against the wall
a few times,
(or a million)
but the smashing of it
surprised me
–liquid spilled everywhere!
cutting tender toes
as I struggled to mop it up
Lacking towel
(and mop)
the crumpled paper balls I employed
–created incidental Rorschach art,
and poetry that looked quite like words—
but proved ineffective
(in the l-o-n-g run)
and clothing cut into
tourniquets couldn’t staunch
the bleed, either
–water colored paradoxically
rose from those toes—
and though I cursed the mess soundly,
that didn’t work as well as I thought it might.
that spill spread!
A mixed metaphor–
the wildfire of it
soaked rugs,
seeped through floorboards,
and dripped into
every story in my house,
saturating everything in red
–which made me angry,
. . .
and hungry
. . .
and more attractive to the opposite sex, even so–
(as red will)
and it wasn’t until
the liquification of home
and hearth
was near complete,
that I noticed
there had been no
Gerbers in that
infernal vessel
–after all.
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