Rib

On the day I was wrong
about everything,
far from Jesus feet
perfumed by the penitent,
I loosened my shoe
rubbing the dust of the world
from my soul.

What should've been love,
tore like a blanket,
stained coffee dark,
heart bitter.

This husband,
reduced to a mad pissing boy,
woodshedding tears,
wringing the too late truth
from a dish towel
after spoiling supper.

You don't make up for this,
the rib is missing,
apple bit.
Sit sunken in a cornered couch,
watching His wash basin
circle the upper room.