Spaghetti in a Collander
My son-in-law’s mother’s fragile mirror
Rests on an old desk down in the basement.
The frame is sprung. The silvering poor.
I brushed it when I was carrying trash through
And thought it shattered. But no slivers flew
Across that greasy, leaf-ratty floor,
No light set free by an accident,
To sparkle in the concrete, sharp and near.