Sonnet Number One

Entering Seattle, my guts knuckled
around my spine, squeezing, racing my heart.
My friend, who thought up this dumb trip, chuckled.
A thousand miles and at the end a hurt

woman. Years had passed but my harm still stung
her. Now worry about her anger as fresh
as showers wormed within me. Her sharp tongue
would never forgive my failure of flesh.

Guilt digs out the holes filled by life and hones
and stabs our tender souls with jagged bones.

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