BROKEN TOYS

Older men with pasted hair
Oxford through the snow; icing at Brooklyn curbs…
In dumpsters left ajar since New Year’s Day
There are doll’s heads hatcheted with corded hair
Spliced by freezing temperatures,
While children fog their lips at toy store windows
And grip the old man’s hand
To still with smiles that there is happiness
Hiding somewhere in the glass…
I’ve lived long enough to understand
That we are all broken toys;
Crumpled in our dreams of plastic
Shining like china plates
Where we imagine nothing breaks
Or cracks in disappointing falls…
I’m the old man with pasted hair
Who silently complies with every childhood dream
Just to keep the children smiling –
Feeling that my days are numbered
Before they realize I will also fill a dumpster;
Ignored by everyone who lives past me
Blinded by the fate of broken toys
And new ones in the window.  

Ken Siegelman

Brooklyn Poet Laureate