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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.

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. 

Orchid Dust

It slipped to the bricks,

A flight

From a window

Open at

Midnight,

The orchid, given to

Polish the feelings

Rasped by an unpolished man.

A tick of the finger nail 

A click on clay pot 

Sent it to its two storied 

Demise

Swept up with no trace

By the dawn patrol

Of street cleaners with brooms

Swept into dustbins 

Or maybe even rescued 

With no clue to it’s retinue 

Of accommodating women

Silenced with a wink, a gift, 

A threat that cooperation 

Was much more prized than their worth

So its satisfying crash

Echoed in brick alleys

Soothed more than the trinkets  

Bestowed as gags.  

The beautiful orchid 

More cherished dead 

Now, than it was alive. 

What’s your first feeling,

Not the first pictures you saw 

but what's your first feeling? 

Is it the kitchen and you're 3,

The margarine stick and the taste of butter 

The thing you craved at 3,

No dairy, not allowed dairy,

so you ate the margarine, 

Took slices off it 

Cuz you craved the butter.

But what was your first thought,

Your first feeling,

The first vision

That grinds thru your mind 

In 8 millimeter flicker,

In tiny photos 

Black and white realities 

Copies, and copies, with dates,

Or VHS

Taunting you now with static lines,

The realities of failed technology 

Out-dated,

You didn’t back it up?  

So, what do you see? 

What does your mind eye feel? 

The atrocities of your memory,

Not banal pictures of Santa encountered,

But the frying pan

On your mother’s temple?