A Porch Chair

If there was an underlying current,
a mix of emotions, of torn thought
wrought by recent daily events,
it feels as though my spirit rings its
hands, as though I were that child
once again who watched the worry
of a grandmother rocked in a porch
chair, till rubbed her hands so thin
with, what was it in that vacant stare?
That she churned in hands so soft
they felt like velvet, like butter skin,
that never have I since felt anything
quite like it. But how could I ever
forget, those steel blue eyes, though
I could not know the thought that
caused the boards to creak beneath
the constant rock of that rocking chair,
while between her fingers
the twirling tissue was so twirled
it nearly disintegrated. If there was.
And of course there was, as there
always is, that underlying current,
that some may, or may not pick up on.
Good days, or as of late, more bad days,
I’m sad to say, of inner turmoil,
or of unsettling feelings of not being
where I should be, that how could I say?
What, this? When more often than not,
we are all so good at putting on faces,
at lying with that cordial “everything’s fine,” quip
that after awhile, it makes for almost too much
tough swallowing, don’t you think?
That now I wish I hadn’t, and had
instead said what I had really wanted
to say, and gone and painted my nails red,
for that fleeting thought as you shook
my hand, felt so very much like disappointment,
when you saw that I hadn’t.

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3 thoughts on “A Porch Chair

  1. Faraz Asfia says:

    These lines connect to the sole of human feelings. It is never about the words, but how they come together.

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