Contrition

I left what should have been said
by the side of your desk
on a wrinkled page—
a half apology,
three-quarters of a resignation.
I left you with no tears
and drove home.
 
Wood fires and bark of the canyon
smelled like pencils,
number two lead and yellow paint,
blade-curled wood
sharpened in a child’s cigar box.
A back slap across the lips stings like a penalty
and now my tires screech over
asphalt covered with bougainvillea.