Boy Against Girl

I slam the heel of my Doc Martin's
into ice coating the street. It feels good
to wield such power.

Like ceramic tiles tossed aside,
the mud-speckled shards of ice clap
against the brick street as I kick them
apart. This display of force
makes me wonder if I am angry,
and reminds me that I had a wife

ten years ago.
With her off birth control
I took control: Baby?
No baby. Sex? No sex.

I stand surveying the damage
to the ice. Do I have the upper hand
now? My Doc Martin's move
grudgingly, nudge a few pieces
of the ice-puzzle
with the toe of my boot,
return them
to their original positions.
But there are gaps,
un-mended seams.

What is gone is
gone; what is broken
is broken:

Essential crystals lie
scattered over bricks,
like a shattered backboard on a gym floor,
like a spread of diamonds
in a jeweler's unfolded cloth.