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When the Dancing Stops and There Are No Chairs Left
On the day we all sat around the table again we finally had to admit that loss was not foremost on our minds. Rather, it was the old phonograph that took up much of the sideboard’s real estate that led us each, one by one, to the tabletop to dance the jitterbug in jerky motions betting that it would be the next person up to actually make it over the edge. A side bet on the barrel, $10 a pop if you get a chance or have the inclination.
Aunt Daisy brought a mushroom pie just ‘cause she liked the smell and I brought a rhubarb one — both set on the same sideboard jumping and jiving their crusts, flipping bits of pastry dough in time to brassy rhythms that made our feet swell. Mama would have liked it I think. And one by one we all fell.
That is the way of the world I think.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2023.
Note: I am playing around with form these days. I am not even sure if this amounts to a poem or a prose poem. But these types of writes are fun for me. So, you may see more of them.
