an unrehearsed universe

Apology and Tender of Compensation

I am sorry
I was
wrong

Please

Forgive me

The language of apology.
I see how naturally it comes to you,
tumbling off the tongue with ease
when I am the injured one;
that is a graciousness of spirit
I am lacking. 

How can I tarnish my righteousness
by speaking when I know you are wrong?
It is easier to apologize

than to argue, you have told me,

when you have delivered an insult. 
Feelings do not care
how unintentional
the hurt was.  You may be right. 
Nevertheless, I cannot.

But I have learned
my own tricks. 

The tightness you hide inside yourself,
keeping your temper in check
through tactical retreat.  Before me you disappear,
a more thorough leaving
than if you had walked out of the room.

My cue. 

I sally forth with soothing
insubstantial
noises

to stroke the ego,
soft adventurous ones
that rouse the spirit.

You forget
– or pretend –
about your anger
for as long as it takes my clever hands
to finish the apology.