Bloody Mary

I hear the sound of shattered glass
crushed under my feet and I think
of your clear blue eyes,

"There're more mugs are in the cabinet
on the right, tea's next to the sink."

I watch you grab the broom, a dustpan
and a deep breath, then bend down
gingerly to clean up another broken moment.

"Thanks, want me to help with that?"
I ask you, but I know the answer already.
"No, I got it, thanks though," you smile.

A second later, maybe less, your foot
slips and catches, you fall backwards
and catch yourself with your right hand

as the broom flies forward, the dustpan
clangs and you yelp in some near-dire agony.

The blood shoots four feet and starts to puddle
in the crushed glass sparkling like ice cubes
on the dirty brown linoleum.

"Oh shit," I ran to the bathroom for a towel.
We wrap your hand and head out
for the hospital. "Thanks," you sob.

"For what?" for what? I think again
"For being there," your smile breaks.
"No problem. Anytime."