I've had a history with broken glass

At six, I pitched
two small, balled fists
through the flat of a screen
door’s flimsy pane.

It was latched shut, but
I was Superman.
The blanket cape and
bloodless wrists proved it.

Over four decades
I’ve leaped, bound
to keep fewer
delusions of super.

The last shattering
as my clench gives
a misplaced tap,
to storm window glass.

Two sputtering
crimson tongues taunt
the kerplop
of that passage.