Beneath the kitchen table…..
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Kitchen Chairs
the legs on my kitchen chairs are beginning
to crack under the pressure of too many burdens
plopped down by a dysfunctional family,
troubled minds and angry voices
(venting) in the heart of the house
where we all gather on mother’s birthday,
christmas eve, or in times of a crisis
but never for dinner anymore…anyway
i wonder if that’s how you felt at the end,
like the legs on my kitchen chairs
unstable, breaking, coming unhinged.
i never would have guessed that you
were losing ground, giving up the battle
afraid you’d never win the war, yet the
last time i saw you sitting on one of my
kitchen chairs, you joked about your past
mistakes, your fucked-up marriage, and
your drunk-and-stoned years after high school,
after our best-friend days but before you found
jesus (or HE found you) desperate for salvation.
where was HE (i’d like to know) that sullen april
night when you decided you had enough
of what life didn’t offer and alcohol couldn’t dull?
did HE guide your hand as you signed your
bed-time notes (instructions for the living)
on how to handle your dying
(a week later in a coma).
did HE whisper in your hair
“come with me, i will make you whole”
as you swallowed life’s regrets
with a swig of warm beer (that left you cold)
or did you leave HIM a note too?
Judi in Ohio (search phrase: “kitchen chairs”)