Sorry

Sometimes I feel as though
I spend my whole life apologising:
to the client on the phone
I swore at by mistake,

to the two friends whose first meeting
was forty-five awkward minutes in a pub together
waiting for me
to stop being late.

Perhaps I should buy one of those autograph machines
that famous people have on their desks;
except that instead of my name it would repeat
‘I’m sorry’ at the end of every letter.

I’m sorry that my copy of “How to be A Normal Person’
appears to be missing several chapters.
I’m sorry that I scream at my husband at the dinner table
I can see why that might make you feel uncomfortable.

I’m sorry that I can’t even apologise
without it sounding false,
my tin tongue rattling against the words,
the cheap beads I’m forever rattling in your face

I’m sorry that I yawned
just as you were getting to the punchline,
that I told you the honest-to-god-truth
when clearly I should have lied.

I’m sorry that I aired all your dirty laundry
spread your smalls across the pub table
and laughed at your unmatched socks.
I’m sorry that I never know when to stop.

I’m a sorry sort of friend, a sorry sort of wife
A sorry sort of daughter. No doubt
I’ll have more apologies to make
when the baby arrives.

God, the accusing little face I’ll have to answer to
every time I miss a fucking (I'm sorry) piano recital
the crunch (I'm sorry) of laughter
beneath my unwary feet.

And worst of all:
the reproachful flap-flap-flap of blank pages
in the Baby's First Year scrapbook
I’ll never quite get round to filling in.