the apology

you saved in a steel box
with small locks,
tumblers to turn,
combinations of numbers
to swing the door
open on papers you needed
to keep safe
and unburned should a
fire engulf the world,
or a flood
should wash it all away.
marriage certificates,
divorce decrees,
licenses and insurance,
degrees of merit,
the titles to cars,
the proof of birth,
of your existence here
on earth. even the dog,
dead now for years,
had papers in the box.
a hand written letter
from a former love, it
too folded and kept
safe, an apology
addressing the end.