I always was more than just a little fruity.
We both knew that,
that with the slightest insult of vibration
I could loose my balance.

The day you slammed the door so hard it shook
the window glass, the panes ached without breaking,
their jaded squares were made for it,
a geometry of aloofness or forgiving,

but I lacked such hard angles
felt, in my pit, your angry jarring
and slipped over the wicker lip to the table.

It was frightening to be reeling off
in the inescapable inertia of my hurt.

The windows watched.
But they didn't care; they'd seen it all before.