Nothing To Be Sorry For

 

I stayed sober, said thank you

did not blurt.

I removed floss and tissues,

picks and wrappers

from the wastebasket.

I asked for nothing

except a bit of air conditioning.

I run hot, and for that I apologized.

 

Let me shrink myself to fit

into their lives, my brother

and his fourth wife, their house

with modern white furniture

and nowhere comfortable to sit.

My appetites ooze.

I leave fingerprints on mirrors

stains on linens

that I can’t erase.

 

In the car on a winding drive

he swerves around a curve and she cries,

“Slow down!” And his name, a dart.

He does slow, but barely.

He and I learned a quiet way

around rage.

 

I watch for his wink in the rearview mirror—

a coded sign. Instead,

he looks at her, gives her

a sheepish smile.

And there is our father

and every man I’ve wanted

and not one glance.

Just as I always did,

I wonder, what did I do wrong?