Some Things Are Broken

The clock's hands are stuck indefinitely
Pointing at fragments it will never

Comprehend, its face staring
Cold at the air that surrounds it.

Hollow drafts fill a kitchen in a house
Where honey once dripped golden

Along the side of a mug, announcing
Itself only when it reached out

To grasp warm fingers encircling
The handle. There is no can opener

Crying after chipping a serrated
Tooth; no tiles waxed to mimic

Ceilings - instead they sit idly
Upon a wood foundation, longing

To groan, to bend in delight
Under welcomed pressure.

Years ago, a seed managed
To burst from these boards,

Pushing dust aside and bursting
Through glass, expanding outward

As a sleeper when the sun prods
Him into consciousness, yawning

And fumbling through the slow
Motion of morning, finding

A snooze button before returning
To stasis in an empty bed.