Dumping the Old Windows
by Mark DeFoe
I heaved them in the reeking pile, but they
did not break. The vision of that old world
was not so brittle, though warped to be sure.
At home I had new glass, blemish free, that
stayed the cold, that muted the vulgar street.
But I knew my analogy was lame.
Either side of the pane, I found myself
praying when a new god sauntered by.
But now my deities may be holograms,
only digital. I grabbed a broken board,
turned the old glass into shards, blaming the old
windows for not letting in light enough,
never letting me call out Eureka.
What epiphany did I expect? Having shattered
the old, I had no vision that might find
new perception, new eyes. My arrogance
and anger had blurred my focus. I stood
at the dump’s edge, foolish and ashamed.
Around me lay a mockery of nameless junk,
a scribbled Braille I could not decipher.