No Rubbing Out

I meant to draw a window

but made a door instead.

My hand went back, a nervous habit,

to where the pink used to be,

expecting give.

Only dry wood there, splintered,

a blunt refusal to concede.

This line, once made, it stays.

It’s the kind of thing you carry,

drawn in charcoal, in my head.

No soft way to undo a choice,

no careful smudge, no clean erase.

Just the dark mark on the page,

a permanent mistake.