I’m sorry that my skill has faded,
that I’ve left wood unchopped
and the fireplace in poor maintenance.
I’m sorry that you feel neglected
and that your frock is pilling
and your puns no longer make sense.
I’m sorry we stopped attending
the Russian Orthodox Church
on the other side of Mount Willing.
It wasn’t too bad of a drive, come
to think of it. I’m less sorry
that you can no longer wink
at strange men without getting
so much mascara on your cheek
that you look like an ink
salesman who’s been crying, Marjorie,
and please don’t blame Maybelline.
I’m also sorry I got Ween tickets
when what you wanted to see
was Weezer. That, and that I traded
our freezer for a 2002 Lancer.
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