The Hollow Word

Another 'sorry' down the line.

For something I couldn't control.

My voice, a drone, just kept its shine,

but in my gut, a bitter hole.

It took me back, that perfect lie,

to Mrs. Peterson, third grade.

I broke the vase, but let him try

to take the blame, a choice I made.

She looked at me, her eyes so keen.

And I said 'sorry', low and quick.

A little actor, soft and clean,

that honest face, a perfect trick.

It was a skill, I learned that day.

To say the words, but keep them cold.

And watch the trouble slip away.

A story that will not get old.