I wish I could match a thought
exactly to a word and sneak it
past my tongue before it twists it
into something I do not mean.
It can bend my smile into a sneer
leaving me to clean up the mess.
It pokes itself into others’ conversations –
how I wish it would simply shut up.
This mischievous tool can throw
my precious ornaments around.
The broken promises have become
the cracks on my hands.
No boulder is large enough
to block the mouth of its cave
where it wags in disobedience.
Even when tied, it is soon undone.
Hard to forget how it used
my words to grow its fame.
So hurtful. She was so hurt.
I watch honesty’s flame dying
in the slimy tinder of loose talk.
I listen to the wind’s brutal breath
against the tiles of my roof
while it whistles its favourite tune.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Susan Wilson would be
pleased to hear them