A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I walk around with a heart in my hand. 
Different hearts on different days.
Some days it is mine (and I hold it
tightly, close to me, trying both to hide it
and keep it safe; if you perceive it, 
I cannot predict the outcome), but some days,
most days, the heart belongs to another. 
They enter my office, so often start
with red herring snippets of little import,
as they test the waters for safety.  Eventually,
the tears fall, and a chest is cracked open
as I am allowed the privilege 
of bearing witness to this hurting muscle
still beating, still bleeding.
And I hold it then, gently.
It is a spun-glass ornament.
It is a rare and precious stone.
It is broken,
and into my hands it leaks the pain of its tragedies.
And all the while, holding it, 
I tread a tightrope - balancing empathy
with professionalism, deciding just how much
of it I can feel today, and still be safe.