From my collection called "The Dishcloth."

The Dishcloth

Scurrying, hurrying,

running through the night,

hiding, crying, knowing

there’s nowhere to go but home,

nothing out here to fear,

nothing compared to you,

pacing the room,

fuming, waiting

for my return.

I didn’t mean to anger you.

I have added to my sin

the additional crime of flight,

of frightened flight.

I should have stayed

to face your rage.

I was afraid!

I understand how bad I am,

how slow to learn,

how worthless.

I try, I try, to do it right,

but tonight,

I wiped the working surface

with the wrong cloth.

I felt your wrath

behind me as you watched.

I knew I’d used

the wrong cloth.

My feet will not carry me

as I creep through sleeping streets.

I see the light shining

through my door.

I’m sorry I ran.

Please let me in.

Don’t hug me so hard.

It’s my fault, my fault.

I’ll stand here and listen.

I know I’ve done wrong.

Now you’re frowning, glowering,

towering over me.

I’m cowering and cringing.

But I’m listening, I’m listening,

as you explain once again,

as you go slowly over,

the system with the dishcloths.