1967 lawn chair

Steven Baird

My living thoughts of you
still follow me through the bramble
of crumpled bits of paper
where all the words
I write to explain you to me
falter in mid-stroke.
I cannot breathe
in the dust
of yesterday,
where you still live,
where I still pay rent.

There is a mean toll
for crossing that border
and re-walking all those miles,
climbing over the rubble,
pissing on all those tracks,
spitting out all that brine,
but that’s how it was,
that’s how it was
running away from your home

and wrapping my ass in
the given-up geometry of a
1967 lawn chair outside one
fleabag or another,
and I’m down
to the minimum dietary requirement
of crumbled corn chips and
leftover beer
discovered like a treasure
on top of the toilet tank
beside the drunken sketch of Angry Yahweh,
and that last viable cigarette butt
beside the fresh hole in the mattress

no I cannot breathe any more.

I trudge back to you every night,
my bruised eyes and
gravel-bitten feet kick up
dark puddles, dripping what’s left
of me onto crumpled bits of paper

and all my living thoughts of you
run on ahead and wait
for me to catch up.

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31 thoughts on “1967 lawn chair”

  4. t.dot June 9, 2019 / 1:18 am

    HO. LEE. COW. sweeeeeeet. so vivid and full of aching. Love it!

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
  5. Silent Hour June 10, 2019 / 11:53 am

    Still paying rent to yesterday — that was spot on.

    Loved the poem. No way I wouldn’t have.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
  7. Jose Oseguera June 12, 2019 / 4:35 pm

    Love the strong imagery tied with regret and loss. You found a raw nerve and tapped it until we too felt your pain, but even amidst this pain, there seems to be hope.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
  13. patriciaruthsusan August 17, 2019 / 10:53 am

    A stunning description of escaping the hopeless days by dreaming of the happier yesterdays. Marvelous descriptions, Steven. —- Suzanne

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

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