The shutters pulled to the ground, someone shouts
“Shop still closed, is it?”
“The one for charity.
The others, temporarily.”
“On holiday?’
“Due to burglary.”
“Long time since, I hear?”
“The damage was severe.”
“You seem alright?”
“That’s the darkly funny side.”
“Must head back inside.”
“They’ll fix it, yeah?”
“They don’t have the parts.
No hands reach this far.”
Behind closed bars,
I mend my broken heart, I pull out each dart, stitch it up with golden yarn, pick up the shattered glass, wheel all the rubble out in a cart.
Just in time for the next remark.
“Still closed?”
they start.
As if a heart or grief
could heal by chart.