"The sound of things broken so small"

My favorite poet

wrote that line

about making love to a married woman.

For me right now,

it's reminding me

of the little girl I used to be,

stretched out on the living room floor,

a grandparent snoring

in the recliners on either side of me,

as Johnny Cash's voice came through the radio.

As the needle

traced in circles around the vinyl,

I traced out

on the huge pad of paper in front of me

the intricate lines of my dream house.

"The American Dream"

they used to call it;

a 2 or 3 bedroom house

with a white picket fence,

a big old dog,

and a huge back yard

with giggling kids

and the smell of barbecue on the air.

Now,

I'm waking up in an apartment again,

not even five years after my sole attempt,

which was nowhere close to my dream.

Strangers are walking my home's empty halls,

and hopefully one of them says:

"Let's make a deal,"

while all I can hear over and over

whenever I think back over my life

is

"the sound of things broken

so small."