The Great Yield

I saw your name on a flyer for a play

tacked to a pole by the laundromat vent.

It’s been three years since I walked away

from the absolute mess of the things that I meant.

I remember the sidewalk, the smell of the rain,

and the way my throat felt like it was full of sand.

I stopped mid-defense, stopped nursing the pain,

and let the excuses drop out of my hand.

I just said I was sorry. I didn't add 'but.'

I didn't try to explain why I’d been so cold.

I stood in the street with my big mouth shut

and felt the new air take a permanent hold.