On Monday, we broke it.
It slipped from my grasp. Or he inadvertently dropped his side.
I got caught up in momentum. Or he got distracted in stillness.
We didn’t smash it on purpose is what I’m trying to say.

On Tuesday, he stepped on a few of the larger chunks.
Ground them into the carpet as I ran behind with a dustpan.
Why I needed to dispose of the evidence is beyond me.
We were both fully aware it was broken.

On Wednesday, we attended to other matters that didn’t require it.
Stuff on our to do lists. Delinquent matters.
Matters of state. Statements of purpose. Proposals for new work.
Certainly nothing for pleasure.

On Thursday, we remembered what it had been good for.
And we noted the lack, maneuvering around the empty space.
We found other ways to get to the point. And established placeholders.
Fillers. Yes, we fashioned a bit of fluff on the periphery.

On Friday, we manufactored a facsimile from materials
on hand. It came out like a joke. Remember? Someone laughed.
I don’t think it was either of us. But, again, I wasn’t paying
enough attention. My memory can be quite hazy.

On Saturday, we started using the faux as originally intended.
The rhythm was clunky until I offered to grease the stuck point.
He had some sort of grease accessible in a back pocket.
We worked together to target the zones most in need of oil.

On Sunday, it just kind of slipped from our consciousness.
We took it for granted because, frankly, everything was going so smoothly.
I forget what the issue even was, to be honest.
And he seems to have misplaced whatever instructions came in the box.