Smashing Plates

it seems like eons and
constellations away
when we had dinner
at that little Greek place,
Bacchus;
the one where
we bought plates
at 5 bucks a pop and
flung them against the wall

seeking splintering sounds
of glazed clay smashing
with no repercussions.

weeks passed.
one night
we had a blazing row
replete with blue air and tears.
then we made up, kissed.
that should’ve been it,
yet I wasn’t ready
to let go, somehow.

plate smashing seemed
a good way of venting;
rather than pillow punching...
my baseball pitch was
well used that evening.

one dozen dinner plates
crunching against the far wall,
blitz of pottery shards later,
I dodged insomnia.

dawn tiptoed in, wasn’t kind.
found the floor a mess:
splinters spread
more than kitchen-wide,
under-tread;
chips in blue wall tile;
plastic for breakfast.

the cleanup left
to me.