Broken Trust

Many years have passed, and I still can’t get the image out of my head,
all the broken glass I swept up, glittering by the front door,
how the antique lamp smashed against it as it slid quickly shut,
pulling closed as fast as possible to avoid being hit,
my arm killing me then from the weight of the thing,
picking it up so fast and misjudging its heft,
using an odd throwing angle for someone not as limber as he once was,
all resulting in a trip to the orthopedic clinic.

The doctor informed me that I’d strained some ligaments,
said I’d not need surgery, but advised me to wear a sling,
keep the arm immobile as possible,
try to use my non-dominant hand to do what had to be done,
sleep on my back or on my left side only,
come back to see him in a week,
and we’d check the progress of the healing,
decide if I’d need physical therapy,
but for now did I need something for pain?

I didn’t tell him that the pain wasn’t in my arm so much,
that it had more to do with psychological injury,
an old acquaintance running out after being confronted, accused,
the kind of pulsing, dull ache that comes from trusting foolishly,
allowing full access to everything that you treasure,
all that means something, anything to you,
deep down, holding enormous personal value,
both monetary and, more significantly, sentimental.

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