Broken Promises
A single window, like a child’s nail,
broken with the swing of a bat.
An accident, you mutter, to
the old woman whose nose
almost reaches her chin. She never
liked children, never wanted any
of her own. She can’t relate to
their music, their clothes or their
attitude. She blames all children for
taking away her husband. He wanted
children, loved them, and didn’t love
her enough not to have any. He and
his new wife have six, as the old
woman sits alone, cursing broken
promises and broken windows.
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