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.