Thursday, April 10, 2014

My Future without You (a Poem for Day Ten of PAD)

Every day I hold my breath just a little when I sit down to write my poem for the day, wondering if I will be able to let the words (and my emotions) flow. Only twenty more poems to go. Hopefully by the end I will have learned to breathe through the whole process.

The prompt for Day Ten of PAD is:

For today’s prompt, write a future poem. The future might mean robots and computer chips. The future might mean apocalyptic catastrophes. The future might mean peace and understanding. The future might mean 1,000 years into the future; it might mean tomorrow (or next month). I forecast several poems in the near future to be shared below.

The Empty Chair Became Too Much for Me

My Future without You

In the future, this set of cherry-colored dishes
I now line each mortal meal with—the one that holds
us all together, our legs so close our knees knob
against each other (those hardwood legs, too),
we sometimes even joke about playing footsie—
in that future, those dishes will have lost their shine,
chips marking their tired edges, along with a crack or two,
invisible unless you look just the right way in the light.
In that future, I rush to sit, quickening my intake,
and then get back up from empty chairs I (try to) overlook,
giving anything to yell at you, “Clean your plate.”
Giving anything to see your hands
clearing those cherry-colored dishes.


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