Once there was an apology.
It was a sorry sight. It hid,
hands up, in an old earthwork.
Sometimes it limped miserably
from one grim lip to another,
hauling its baggage behind it:
the impedimenta of speech.

One final day, when the sun
sprawled it on a wagging tongue,
it caught a foot in an emphasis.
That was a snag. It tripped
quickly into a wild ricochet,
yammering across the open air
without watching its daft back.

It landed in a barrel of laughs.
The chief one, a wild hiccup,
pulled the struggling apology
to the tub's dumb dungeon.
There were no niceties; they snapped
its spine with a cheap crack.
After that, there were no regrets.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday