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.
