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To a Good Man

The evening is over, the battle un-won,
The mother's been punished for raising their son,
"You're weak, ineffective, reaping what you've sewn,
He's arrogant, good for nothing and the fault is your own."

Their daughter swoops in, aching to right
The grievous wrong, the needless spite,
He watches her, veins searing with vitriol,
Placating them, with all her heart, all her soul.

Catching sight of his wrath her ribcage contracts,
He's choosing a quality he knows that she lacks
To silence her. Why must it unfailingly be
That the judgment that hurts is the one she believes?

Her sister has retreated to some remote place,
Unable to witness the distortion of his face,
That face so familiar and loved to them all
Now bitter, contemptuous, twisted with gall

The lines round his mouth are the penalty incurred,
Ruts cut by the sharp edge of each cruel word,
He dislikes them complains they make him look mean,
The words go unsaid "things are what they seem."

Unfair but provoked, those lines are not him,
He's the freckles of his face, the groove of his chin,
The crinkling of his eyes, eyes strange to contrition,
Overworked and then hardened by consuming ambition.

Next morning he's calm the storm it has passed,
Echoes of rage for him alone will not last,
He's shamefully cheery, gives affection and love,
His forgotten hate will not to be spoken of.

If there's regret at all it's disguised with a grin,
But the nonchalance fails to lessen the sin,
Rather the sin is done, not in the words
But in the sorrow unseen: the apology unheard.

Learn more about this author, Libby Bellibone.
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