empty chairs missing volumes

 

For years, our unspoken promise—

meet each school day at Park and Weston.

We clutched books ‘til red lines formed

in the soft places of our arms.

 

Our return home, a break at

your cousin’s service station.

His grease-stained hand pulled out

ice-cold bottled Orange Crush.

 

For years, we sipped the sweet—

hung tight to trust under the vocals

of The Eagles, Peter Frampton, and

Joan Armatrading.

 

Sprawled on your bed,

we thumbed Sears and Roebuck.

You let me borrow your flouncy white blouse;

I felt like a poet in it.

 

For years, we rummaged through

garage sales and flea markets,

breathing musty smells as we

handled chipped Blue Willow.

 

That last summer, we sat in our tans and cut-offs,

dangled our feet in the lake.

You chose adventure;

I traded mine for a wedding ring.

 

For years, we planned to keep in touch.

If I dropped my intention, I didn’t mean to.

How did this friendship tiptoe away

so quietly?

 

Now I rummage through the shelves of my life

searching for one missing volume.

6 Comments

  • Jessica
    1 year ago

    Keeps me wondering…love the rhythms

    • Sharon A Gibbs
      1 year ago

      If we could all keep writing on the pages of our friendship stories–what a wonderful thought.

  • 1 year ago

    We sat in our tans and cut-offs <– my favorite bit

    Such bittersweetness. Thank you for sharing!

    Blessings.

    • Sharon A Gibbs
      1 year ago

      Do you have memories of jean cut-offs? And circling dangled legs in the lake? Writing this poem has given me a new appreciation for keeping in touch my friends. Blessings.

  • Susie Balas
    1 year ago

    Wish we could go back for a week. Wouldn’t that be fun? xox

    • Sharon A Gibbs
      1 year ago

      It certainly would! Even the silliness of going to the Gloria Stevens salon. Remember those leotards?

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