Angele Toomey Poetry

This poem came to me as I stood in a busy concourse, watching the endless flow of people pass over a floor of worn tiles. Some were chipped, some cracked, some replaced. I could see where replacement tiles had been used because they were all the same faux terracotta. I guess it’s too expensive to find exact replicas of tiles laid decades ago in an intricate art deco pattern.
It struck me how easily broken things — and people — are ignored as long as they stay remain useful and convenient.
And in ignoring the brokenness, quiet harm continues.

Different types of broken
A hairline crack in the tile
runs
from one side to 
another,
barely visible.
The concourse
consists of thousands of tiles
some chipped
others worn down.
No-one notices the brokenness
as long as the tile
remains functional
and doesn't cause
discomfort to others.

Each tile is walked on
until such time as a cracked edge catches
a heel or 
suitcase wheels inconveniently.
The broken thing will be 
excised and disposed of,
replaced by a blander, newer model.
No one will care that the pattern is 
broken,
or there are other tiles
slowly
dying.
The people are happy
as long as 
performative functionality  
returns.