My father ran the house
from a imitation red leather chair,
with arms that never ripped
though eventually turned
whitish pink from age.
Carried home through the streets
by my mother and me,
her repeating all the way.
She couldn’t believe someone
would throw something out
that looked this new.
My father ran his house with ease
from his chair, raised five kids.
Disciplining and instilling
the fear of God in them without ever
leaving its comfort longer then the time
it took to go to the bathroom
during commercial breaks.
My father, a man I’m sure now
understood the true meaning of life,
and would’ve shared it with me.
If only I had thought to ask.
Author notes
chair
A contest entry
- Pick a prompt and run with it! by silverscent.
525 points, ended March 23, 2008, 20 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
wow, great take on the prompt. Carrying that chair home through the streets, triumphant with the find - jubilant - and that it would become the command station. lol. Love it.
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