It's Not the Brady Bunch

by Diane Redleaf

The shards of glass were once a mirror
in the hallway of the home.
Windows overlooked a glassine lake
The dog barked, though rarely bit us humans,
A peaceful place.

It’s a blur, but once,
a shoe got thrown
then worn again,
as if its foot and hand forgot.

Now the older man remains, tending his wife’s fire.
We interlopers arrive to sweep the glass.
We enter, not begrudging the dog his bite,
uncertain the depth of his teeth.