Ruth E. Foley

I've asked you not to smoke in
bed. That's one promise broken.

Shard of glass finds my pale heel
and now the skin is broken.

Shaft of sunlight scarred by marks
on the pane—cracked, not broken.

Roadside turtle flails a torn
flipper. His shell is broken.

Make your own song in the car.
The radio is broken.

You and me, sheet corner-sprung
while evening's fast is broken.

Spill milk, crash plates, it doesn't
matter. The eggs are broken.