Potato chips and pills share grease

Trade color and occupy the same space

In the little wooden bucket

Perched in Gerri’s kitchen

Her anchoring protection from the world

 

 

These two disparate, precious fixations

Keeping her from drifting

Too far into either the ether

Of her madness

Or newly opened earth

 

 

I watch sickness and pain

Turmoil and sadness reaching around

Her infantile waist

With taut, tender embraces

Crushing and comforting simultaneously

 

 

So we buy more chips

Lauding the sodium, laughing at the colors

Then look away when the pills are popped

Ignoring the wooden bucket

As much as we can

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2007

 

 

• Poetry