the Italian Vase

the table
on a wobbly leg,

a hair line fracture in the wood,
antique.

collapses
easily with a slight push
out from

the corner.
the vase goes down then up
into a cloud
of

Italian dust.
it's hardly a bang, more

of a thud, then
mush,

then a grey plume rising.
she laughs.

i'm going back to venice
in the spring.

no worries. i'll buy another
one,
it was a gift
anyway

from a former lover. I
can't even remember

his name.