Until Someone Cries

One has a pine needle driven in
under a nail, one treads on broken glass
on the landing, one cuts the roof of their mouth
on a potato based snack
and one just has a broken heart.
There's a brass brand in the street
rattling collection tins in Santa hats
and there he is on a trailer sleigh
pulled by Volvo inviting the small kids
onto his knee. You see them twice
parking the sleigh in the garage
by the scout hut. It's you with the heart.
This time of year keep a glove in the car
shrouding your gear knob, wipe the inside
of the screen. You're the one who sends
the children off to unwrap
the other half of Christmas, the other
grandparents with their envelopes of cash.
You tweeze out the pine needle, nurse the wound
hold that tiny pyramid of glass in your palm
closing your hand so the crease shuts like a book
willing it to cut you there on the heartline.
Note it is tipped with blood.