This infernal list I dreaded so long,
this internal death row of shame at last
scratched on paper, putting names to past wrongs,
those loved ones and others—honesty casts
me no longer as victim. Preps my heart
to open like small glass case of humble
pebbles at wounded royalty’s ramparts.
This concrete row of humans I’ve stumbled
through, shoving them aside with vile ego,
doesn’t even conceive it awaits me.
Soon I’ll approach them, softly let them know
I wish to come talk, write how I’m sorry
if they’re far off, or call them, it depends.
State clearly my intent to make amends.
Roger Armbrust
March 27, 2010
