The fault that lies between what is and what could be:
a bone-deep gulch that makes me swallow hard
because I feel this gap is best ascribed to me.
The things I didn’t do, remarks misheard.
And even though the driver of the other car
turned blithe and trusting across traffic like a fool,
I still think it’s my own misstep. For if I’d waited half an hour,
pulled into some store to feel the AC’s cool?
Only that self would be above reproach, critique.
I’m sorry I didn’t know the light would turn.
I should have known you’d turn me to a meek
absorber of your blows and scalds and scorn
because in truth, it’s no more than I’ve long suspected:
there’s no me that should not be in some way corrected.