I ache to find forgiveness, for you have wronged me so.
You slither by, box brimming with shoe polish and parables,
face flushed with embarrassment, you claim, too heavy to carry.
We both know that it is far lighter than the weight of your shame.
It is incongruous that you once lay in love with me,
this stranger with the spring of freedom in his step.
A stench of cowardice hangs in your absence,
alongside the power tools, you abandoned in the shed.
Pulling the pin, heading off in another direction, you rationalise,
no need to flog a dead horse, you said.
These phrases like a worn gate, ugly with rust and neglect,
too exhausted to salvage and I, beyond wounded to care.
I stumbled in the rut carved deep by used lovers,
and bore witness to your weakness in the company of men.
Time to collect another, your sly firstborn had said.
Sniggering like an awkward adolescent, you did not defend.
A replica of you, the other acorn, tight-fisted and arrogant.
The die of your deceit, cast by his fly blown ignorance.
Te Roberts 2020