A Mystery

I have been wondering how to write a book,
Wishing for a plot.
Poems flow out without forethought,
Often clarifying my ideas as I write.

I woke early one morning
To broken glass covering the floor and my bed.
Strangely, it was not sharp shards, but tempered glass.
Where had it come from?

I went to turn on the kitchen lights,
But nothing happened.
This terrified me.
Then I woke up for real.

That would make a good mystery:
A broken windshield in the bedroom,
Malfunctioning lights …
But after such a promising beginning,

Nothing further suggests itself.