Broken Boy
We all knew he was sitting too high up on that ledge
for his own good. And that, when push came to shove,
the big boy would roll head first over the edge.
All of the king’s horses and all of the king’s men
tried to cram that cracked-pot back. But, let’s face it,
even before the fall, Humpty was unfixable—sitting pretty
like some couch-potato wingless Icarus, perched there
with his devil-may-care contempt for the rest of us.
The psycho-biographers had a field day,
labelled him a masochist, a narcissist, an exhibitionist,
a mama’s boy—one very cracked egg. Still,
It satisfied some atavistic urge to watch that egghead shatter.
And, truth be told, the kings horses and all the king’s men
weren’t putting Humpty back together again.
They were sweeping the pieces under the rug
where they have been ever since.
Compare this cautionary tale to that of Moses,
who came down from his own high place
and smashed the tablets in a fevered funk.
God told him to gather up the pieces and keep them.
Don’t hide this out of pride, the Lord said.
The shamefaced prophet descended to the rabid mob
like a bag lady lugging his sack of brokenness.
Some gremlin loves to smash things. Some devil
from hell makes everything fall. Or, who knows,
maybe it’s a god who shoves us off our too-high-wall.
A god, who tells us to gather up the shards without trying
to piece them back together, without pretending
that things are whole, or ought to be.