An Apology

 
I'm sorry I left the water running
and it overflowed, just like the river
after a spring rain and melting snow.

              Lukewarm water traveled through
              the ceiling and down the walls
              past  your Great Aunt Martha's tatted
             Celtic Cross on the living room wall.

Remember how the road disappeared
when the Concord River spread over its banks?
Trees lost their footing, and
men stood knee deep in water fishing for carp.

             If the bank called a half hour later
             I'd have been in the tub bathing
            with the water at a safe level.

Remember how we drove ahead of a flash flood
watching the water encroach on both
sides of the road? You drove like a NASCAR driver
at the Gatorade Duel, outrunning the water,
spinning tires, foot to the ground.

            If I didn't go upstairs to find my
           account information I'd have heard
           the water pass through the Rya rug
           we bought on sale before the stream
           headed for the basement.

                 I'm really sorry for the damp spots,
                 for the buckled ceiling, for the floating books,
                 for the limp Celtic Cross and for the checks I bounced.

Poetic Asides Prompt