It was a blue bowl from my mother’s shelf

It was a blue bowl from my mother’s shelf.

I watched it hit the linoleum and crack.

I’m trying to fix it all by myself,

but I know that I’ll never get the pieces back.

The tube of glue is a silver, sticky mess.

A drop hit my thumb and stayed right there.

I pressed it to my finger in my distress,

and now I’m caught in a chemical snare.

The skin is bonding, a white, crusty seal.

I can’t pull them apart without a tear.

It’s funny how much of a break I can feel

when the thing I’m fixing isn't even here.