Shattered Glass Windows
I can hear him silently screaming
like a tree falling in the forest
and everyone pretends not to hear it.
I was never there-
the same words uttered by the
man who slit your throat.
It reminds me of the time
I saw Burkman on Commerce Street
throwing rocks at the windows
of abandoned warehouses.
I asked him,
Why are you doing that?
He said it was okay,
no one needs the building.
The battered face of homeless war heroes
resembled the building Burkman stoned to death:
shattered glass windows and deep hollow souls.
He said it was okay.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Shattered Glass Windows by Michael Mira )
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