Words That Missed

The kid, he kicked the pot, the fern went down,

dirt spread like shadow on the polished wood.

His mouth moved, a small, mumbled sound,

"Sorry," he said, but nothing understood. Not good.

His eyes, they burned, a hot, bright coal

of defiance, a refusal to be swayed.

And then I knew that cold, hollow hole

where words are spoken, but no debt is paid. Or made.

It was my turn, years back, the chipped plate.

My mother's face, a silent, tired plea.

I said the word, sealed up my own hard fate,

a lie of sound, to just get by, to be

released from consequences. But the lie remained.

A hollow thing. It echoed, thin and sharp.

The real sorrow, it was never stained

by that quick phrase, a broken, tuneless harp. A tarp.