GOT BY - AGAIN

Pistol hammer, she stands cocked,
Hands on hips,
At tears edge.
A wound spring awaiting one wrong word,
Holds back her own.

Another broken promise
Piled on a past of broken promise,
Who, or what will first concede?

The air electric waits
And waits
For some excusing phrase or short
Apologetic conciliation,
Reconciliation.

A tear descends then rage at self
For weakness showing
Tracks her cheek.

But before she speaks
A humbled hand ascends
To wipe her chance
Away
Again.