Sometimes words slip out, like the time you called her mama
even though you knew she was your teacher but it just slipped
because she was warm enough to make you forget the drama,
the choking sobs and windmilling arms screaming I hate school.
And sometimes words slip out from lips like people slip on ice,
gems of comedy gold, muttered retorts like muffled gun fire shots
leaving a legacy of momentary twinges and laughter if nice,
or a shattered bone or friendship if vindictive or mean.
But sometimes words slip like tires on ice, spilling forth, accident-
ally saying I love you before you’re ready or crushing someone’s
dreams and leaving scattered pieces of silence behind, dent-
ed relationships left smoking on the side of life’s lonely highway.