“Truth comes ‘round at nine” you said

and cleared my empty plate.

Said I, “Well, Truth is always good,

“I’ll gladly sit and wait.”

But seated in the drawing room

surrounded by my art

I couldn’t help but hear the ragged

thumping of my heart.

The knocker knocked at nine O’clock

and Truth was at the door

looking just as haggard as

she had in years before.

No time at all for pleasantries;

she didn’t come for tea.

She grabbed my shoulders with both hands

and whispered earnestly.

When she’d spoken just enough

she sat me in that chair,

brought water in a cup, and opened

windows up for air.

With that she moved into the hall

and out into the street,

presumably to knock some other

idiot off his feet.

Although she broke me, Truth was fair;

years later, I’m alright.

At least I was until I heard that

Truth comes ‘round tonight.

C. Sunny McNair © 2014