Once, before I knew you (which seems impossible now),

I dealt with the sting of unrequited affection by buying a dozen dollar store wine glasses

with my roommate

for the express purpose of smashing my share

on the brick walkway

outside our college dorm

in the middle of the night.

This wouldn’t sit well with authority – though we did not get caught.

I had forgotten that bizarre therapy until today

routinely chucking bottles one by one

into the glass recycling bin one street over.

A set of mini-rage explosions

requiring a special trip,

made acceptable by thick black plastic and courtesy hours.

(It’s not OK to make such a racket for the good of the planet

when people are trying to sleep, after all.)

I know now what I didn’t want to know then:

Breaking stuff ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

—Kate Amann

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