Maggie Phenicie

That Apology I Wrote You

The apology I wrote you
is just sitting there, rotting,
stinking up the countertop
like a week-old, brown banana.

It’ll start to smell, and then
the kitchen will reek.
And it will spread to the
whole house, that sickly sweet
odor of mummified banana
that never leaves your fingers.

And after a point, the smell
will reach the neighbors,
and they’ll complain.

But I’d sooner suffer
than ever deliver it.