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Stain
Stain
A discolored spot, a taint of guilt, perhaps both
A playground in the basement
where billiards my husband takes pride.
Torments him it does
pervasive in his mind
naive of its creation
the barely noticeable stain
in an otherwise spotless field of green.
His friend betrayed by his wife
sought shelter there
On that playground another betrayal
Impulsively accepted
held briefly then expelled
The stain naively created
by an otherwise spotless me.
Sad, depressing, but very deep. This tragic poem is worth sharing. I hope you find a way to publish it.
Best, Ray