by David Lee
I am the glue, holding split wood together.
At first I pour over the issue, slipping into cracks and fissures
(Those careless chip-away problems)
And settle, taking my hold on those broken pieces that belong together again.
It isn't long before those pieces forget that I am here
And once again begin to tug apart,
Straining against the weight that they have taken upon themselves.
"More glue!" They shout. How can they know
That I could never fix things in the first place,
Only keep them from flying apart?
I am the glue, holding shattered dreams together,
And I hate it.