©2017 by Jack A. Urquhart

Just so you know:
I have my regrets.
Doesn’t everybody?
And yes, I am sorry—
sorry for the grief I’ve caused.

That, in a nutshell,
is the story of my life.

But to get on with it—
this self-indulgent ditty
(What? Did you think this Jack
a clueless knave?)—
it’s all been my bad,
I freely admit;
would do so to your face
if that were possible.
Not that it would matter.
Not that it would change anything.

So why seek expiation, then?
Why this baying at the moon
when some of you are unreachable,
except perhaps in dreams;
when others, still kicking,
have moved on to better lives
expunging every remembrance
of me?

Well, here’s the thing, you see:
I still remember you,
all the ‘you’s’ of times gone by.
And then, there is this:
I’ve grown old in the interim,
which can prick one’s conscience
to draw blood—
if only a drop or two.

But I’m thinking,
maybe that is enough.
And, if you’ll pardon
my wandering pronouns,
enough for one to discern
shit from Shinola™;
enough for you to know
that the worst thing in life
isn’t some silly loss of face;
isn’t the inescapable imminence
of our respective grand finales.

No, the worst thing in life
is certainty—
that you’ve been the cause
of another’s suffering,
that there is no difference,
nor comfort to be had,
in anguish inadvertently inflicted
and the coldly premeditated act.

But we already knew that,
didn’t we?

So, get ready. Here it comes,
(if not exactly verbatim):
mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa.
To you. And me. And us.
Along with a plea
for a soupçon of empathy
(and the obliging company it keeps).
If only because everyone longs for it,
If only because everyone needs it
as time wears on—
a measure of absolution
in our old age.
Don’t you agree?