Stages of Decay

Today, as the old truck
rattles around the hair pin curve
on Rabbit Hill,
blue paint gleams
like a proud possession
on the one fender still intact.

The other three flap precariously
in various stages of death by rust
while Sue Hart’s old coon dog
bays mournfully at the rattling cough
from the aging engine,

then chases his tail
rather than make the long trek
to the stand of hickory trees
to chase a raccoon
that might chase back.

As Sue Hart’s father
cuts Mr. Miller’s hair,
snipping carefully
around the giant mole
on the center of his head,

Sue Hart sits in her 1950s kitchen
sipping ovaltine
from a cracked blue willow cup.
We sit on worn upholstery
at ‘Grounds for Thought’,

sipping fresh brewed hazelnut.
You look around the room
as if it were new, then down
at our reflections in the faded
formica table,  anywhere
except into my eyes.

 

4 thoughts on “Stages of Decay

  1. Thanks Lucy,

    I was packing up dishes and found a cracked blue willow cup (I threw it away with regret)
    and decided the cup was deserving of some recognition, thus this poem.

    Sarah

  2. BoardFlak

    It’s always interesting the things which make grist for the poet’s mill.

    One gets the sense that the other person either has a secret or bad news is in the offing.

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