If I could I would
piece together the shattered glass of this half empty cup:
with powers like Superman I'd fly fast as infinity
reverse the rotation of the earth
change the course of historical events,
and perhaps breathe freezing cold on all my opponents.
A slow motion shot of fragments levitating from kitchen's hidden corners,
gasps of shock turning back to unknowing looks
my slippery grip sliding back into a firm handshake.
The fruit juice's sticky mess
slops its way back up my cupboard,
creeps up as if gravity turned Einstein upside down
glops up to meet the cup at the moment of implosion
at the moment when the hand slipped,
allowing the cup to burst against the rigid counter top.
At this moment I realize that counter tops have weight and strength:
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping the shit out of the stables.
But do you, in watching the glass slip,
instead lament my shadowy and unreliable first person narrative?
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