It's like the time I broke the glass out back,
and didn't know if I should hide it or
confess. We briefly stashed the rock; the lack
of evidence (excepting, on the floor,
the bits of window) seemed improbable
but crucial--maybe, like all things, the pane
just died of natural causes. I was full
of it in theory, but could not restrain
the little voice who wished he hadn't tossed
the rock, who wished for better aim, who prayed
for glass and hoped the moment could be glossed
right over with it's not your fault, we played
that way when I was young, the glass was just
a thing, and things don't matter once they bust.
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