Sorry Is, In Fact

Sorry Is, In Fact

not the hardest word—
Sorry I slept
with your sister, sorry

I snuck a whiskey bottle
home, so
sorry I ate those

damn plums in the ice-
. But
sorry in the South

is another matter—
the cousin,
camouflaged, sits

in his La-Z-Boy
nurses a bad back

and beer. The dirty
kids run aim-
less round and round

the derelict trailer,
on cue, the dependable

disability check.
the placid deer

hung on flimsy walls
stare at
this carnival

of sorts and declare
in priceless
animal grace, You’re

sorry—we get it—
so sorry
the industrious pines

and creeks and barns
and rows
of corn pity you.


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