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Deborah T. Johnson

Adirondack Chairs

Jigsaw puzzle of greenery, the trees

Nestle next to each in the

slicing sideways light of sunset.

The yard in the back is filled with it,

Filled with the late late summer side slant

of sun,

The plastic Adirondack chairs, left, as we left them,

Me, looking at you, maybe my feet

in your lap...

No, it wasn’t us that set them ajar.

The one time we sat there, your discomfort

Grated on my tranquil storybook

Vision, of us sitting

in the sun,

Drinking,

The Wine,

so we went inside.

Now I see them, those pretend plastic,

Pale blue, light blue to match

The house,

chairs of ease,

One chair looking at the other, while

the other stares off into

Space.

We meant to build a fire that

Summer, a fire pit

evening of

Romance.

But, I saw your dis-ease.

Was it the heat? The drone

of the bugs?

The chance of a gnat,

Landing in your

drink?

Or was it,…something

Different.

Something not found

in the sideways slant of

cooling air.

Was it, something

else, off

in that horizon,

Blocked

by the pale blue, the light

Blue house.

Something,

cutting your sight

Off

from the road.

It must have been, because, you said

Goodbye, several times

That summer.  A nod, a

kiss, and you were

Off,

in your mind,

because you never

left, but sat in your uncomfortable

Sadness of not

Belonging here, or

Where you thought;

Wistful plans set,  a

Blaze, not by

Midnight cords of wood

in a pile among the

Rocks,

Set ablaze by whimsy,

A promise,  not

Promise.

So, we sat that summer,

and watched the flowers in the

pots bloom,

and the rains carry one

away,

And the gnats gnatting

as gnats do,

Cannon balling into pinot,

taking  up

Residence, in that

Pale blue, light blue

house

With plastic mountain

Chairs

On the lawn.

Those chairs,

Those, Adirondack chairs

Still sit, still sit askew, still

sit, in the slanting light,

Still sit, waiting,

as I do,

For a time

Things, will be right

with the

World.

We must get, to

the other side, of

That Summer.

Let the snow pile high,

on those Chairs,

Get to, the whimsy, and

the Promise.

Watch down the

road, for a time to

travel, and not sit,

in uncomfortable

Sadness,

Askew in plastic

Chairs.