Hearing the car approach, the garage door open,
          the engine stop, the driver’s door swing shut,
I ran from the room where I’d spilled the ink
          and fear was a goblin clutching at my gut.

I’d tried to scrub the sofa cushions clean
          of several dozen scattered blue-black tears
but the cloth only made the ink spots bleed.
          My pulse was a burning throb within my ears.

Trying to delay the imminent discovery,
          I flipped the cushions to expose the underside.
I knew that I’d be caught like Adam in his leaves;
          my stain, I could not clean; my self, I cannot hide.