The broken glass on the stairs
shines in the electric light.
Whoever dropped the beer
was anti-social or too drunk
to sweep it up himself.
So the beauty goes, ground
under heel but shining, it
and the deposit lost. But
by the janitor’s broom
it is still sharp enough
for dogs’ feet, babies’ hands,
and eyes pierced by its lights,
that he should curse the fool
and I should try to praise
the pieces of harmony.