Fear makes me
rattlebone jumpy
peeking at shadows
where questions huddle,
but dread pushes
me to face the music
when I hate the song.
Recently I spent hours collecting
sour notes to string with excuses
until I was devil decorated
and short breathed with half truths.
Some like to say they have
a slip of the tongue.
Not me…I walked a
word right across my lips
spouting “bitch” like I owned
the trademark on it.
Oh, the lady never heard it.
I made an eye judgment;
translated it into snarky
with just enough volume
to keep it close to my hip.
It didn’t take ten minutes
for her to prove me wrong.
She offered a smile and friendship
that left my conscience slapping
my brain around in my skull.
No, the woman didn’t hear it.
I spun “bitch” across the table
into the ears of my husband and friend.
Mean is mean no matter how short the dance,
so here I am with dread demanding payment.
Confession won’t erase I was an ass.
Sorry digs in the wound to see
if truth is ready to thread the needle.
Comments
me to face the music
when I hate the song..
That is so well put, Susie.
I can so relate to the scenario you have drawn in this poem.
This was crafted sooo cleverly. Loved it.
..