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Adirondack Chairs 

by Deborah T Johnson

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 shadowed,

left, as we left them, askew, 

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 else,                          

something not found 

in the sideways slant of cooling air. 

Something, 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,

you belonged, 

wistful plans set ablaze, not by midnight cords of wood

in a pile amongst the rocks, but

set ablaze, by a 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 in the shadow of the slanting sun, 

still sit, still sit waiting, 

for a time things will be right 

with the world. 

We just have to get to the other side of That Summer,

find the whimsy,

fulfill the wistful promise, 

fly down that open road,

and no longer sit, 

in an uncomfortable 

sadness, 

askew, in plastic 

Adirondack  

chairs.