A slow drip

at first,

and the groan

of bending

steel.

 

The drip becomes

a stream,

and the stream becomes

a river,

then the sound of tearing

metal

slices through me.

 

A crash,

and a torrent

of the washed up

dreams

and the shattered

stained-glass

walls

of my own broken

psyche

pour out

onto the street.

 

They slide into the gutter

and slip down

below,

with all the other

refuse.

4-25-18