Shard



I cut my foot on a piece of glass on the floor of the basement.
Plexiglass, perhaps.
Or a piece of a shattered lightbulb, sprayed across the carpet.
It bled and I
had to hobble upstairs on one foot.
I kept the palm of it turned up-
Blood drips on stairs are a nuisance,
Especially when one is a temporary cripple.
It bled into my toes and I
got squeamish and dropped it to the kitchen floor.
(I was upstairs now.)
I was about to touch it-

It was so bright red,
It was almost shining,
It looked almost pretty.
It didn't move across the floor.
I was disappointed because I
wanted to see the miniature reverberations it undoubtedly made when it hit the wood.
I washed my hands instead, of course,
And used one paper towel to dab up the problematic new colorings.
I hobbled backwards
(I was getting pretty good at this new art by now,
After going all the way up the stairs,
Which can be tricky
When one is hobbling
Due to a glassy bleeding foot.)
And obtained a bandaid.
This I put on and I
(after putting socks,
which everyone knows are the most superb protection against glass shards on the floors of basements, on)
was ready to rock and roll.