Rib

On the day I was wrong

about everything,

far from Jesus feet

perfumed by the penitent,

I loosened my shoe

rubbing the dust of the world

from my soul.

What should've been love,

tore like a blanket,

stained coffee dark,

heart bitter.

This husband,

reduced to a mad pissing boy,

woodshedding tears,

wringing the too late truth

from a dish towel

after spoiling supper.

You don't make up for this,

the rib is missing,

apple bit.

Sit sunken in a cornered couch,

watching His wash basin

circle the upper room.