Sweeping the Floor

If there is nothing in the breaking of a heart
What are the pieces on this dirty floor?
The broom is made of soggy wood and cannot serve this place.
Besides the wind is blowing cold, the window’s gone,
Not even the birds will sing.
There is grief on the face of everything.
A throat if it could would swallow it down
But there must be room for air
And the only thing you want
Is a voice to shake the stillness of your night.