Tatters

Sometimes I think we all
must be in tatters. Really.
Our frayed ends just
flapping away in the wind,
our fractured parts partially
hidden by sheer will but
still known to all who pass us
in the street, still painfully
apparent to all who really look.
We see each other sometimes
in the shadows and sense some
solidarity of the shattered,
some brotherhood of those
who've worn the ragged ends of
their dreams as proudly as able,
but always with that same glint
of autobiographical loathing,
that sparkle of delusional hope in
the eyes, that hint of a ghost
of a busted window frame
in the ruts of the face.
What really propels us, day in
and day out, past the shards of
the mirrors of our aspirations,
past our fragile, skewed entryway
shadow boxes, the precious,
cracked crystal bottles of our ancient
memories? Is it merely a senseless faith
that the various, scattered pieces of us
will reunite themselves one lucky day
into a single, whole, humane
reflection of the love we're so certain
is really lying in wait deep down
inside of us?

(2006)