heart truck

suppose
at the end of your life
the heart truck comes
and dumps a load of them—
chipped, cracked, torn in two,
pocked with the shrapnel
of good intentions—
at the foot of your death bed
too late to sew them
into a pretty quilt to warm your bones
too late to plug them with mastic
and piece them together
in a mosaic memoriam
too late to mend them.
and suppose these are all the hearts
you’ve broken in your lifetime
and one of them
belongs to your only child.
how could you live with yourself
those last moments?
how could you go
with so much work to do?