Tuesday, February 20, 2007


She apologizes for the meal
while bringing it to the table,
for the vegetables she would have bought
were they only in season.

She’s sorry for the train ride out,
the delays, the rudeness of conductors,
that you had to come so far
while the rain fell like plums off a cart.

She would love to retract some of your childhood.
Nothing major, you understand,
but some words shouldn’t have gotten out,
and some things of value were broken.

With each apology, she erases
a little more of herself
until you hardly see her
at all anymore.

Mark Aiello