The Long Scapegoat

The sideboard is heavy, a walnut beast

I haven’t disturbed since the year he died.

I dragged it back for the rollers at least,

and found what the darkness had managed to hide.

A crescent of blue, a ceramic shard,

from the lamp that I shattered in ninety-four.

I told them the dog had been playing too hard,

and they looked at his tail as it hit the floor.

He’s been under the oak for a winter or two,

while I’m still here with the dust and the blame,

holding a piece of the jagged and blue,

and whispering sorry to a forgotten name.