The Sharpness of the Tongue

I watched the intern's shoulders drop

after I dissected his Tuesday report.

I didn't know how or when to stop

turning the meeting into a blood sport.

He had that look of a quiet, shrinking thing,

the same one I saw in my daughter's eyes

when I told her she didn't have to sing

if she was going to miss all the highs.

I’m holding my mug with a white-knuckled grip,

feeling the jagged edge of a chip in the rim.

I didn't mean for the kindness to slip

and leave nothing but the cold and the grim.