I’m sorry, dear words,
for promising you place
then being fidgety.
Tossing you out.
I’m sorry, dear poem,
for failing to write you
down. You see,
I thought you’d stay
awhile but then you
ran away with whatever
else was in my shopping
list, never to be reclaimed.
Sorry at last for being
fickle with art, instead
of tender, reassuring, true.
Instead of a space
I offered a vacuum.
No amends can be made
now except a new draft.
