Postcard Apology
On the front, a rainy scene – daylight
cascading through a red patio umbrella, damp
chair cushions, drips from the overflowing gutters.
Almost pastoral. Drizzle dimples the birdbath water.
White undersides of leaves, innocent bellies, flash
while tree trunks arch, stretching, growing. Like
teenagers, restless within their changing bodies.
A motorcycle’s red flash, you can almost
hear the staccato throttle.
On the back, the line that separates
the message from the address belies a table, a tally
of right and wrong, counting and accounting, keeping
score. In black ball point, two cursive lines: mistakes
were made. I don’t know what I’ve done.
There is no address, no stamp.