DIMES BETWEEN THE CUSHION CRACKS

All that was left was the lump of a chair,
a Dante doll that rocked until
the stopwatch of a beating heart
trickled into silences.
An afghan draped across the back
to cover holes your spine had rubbed.
From here, you flipped like a caught trout
in the moon's gray pail.

Watched as the rainfall bled
on fuzzy portraits of glass.
Listened as the furnace chirped
its bird-like morning arias.
From here, you grabbed an apron string
that tethered Grandma to her stove.
Lit your pipe, gushed
about her homemade pie,
even when the lattice cracked.

This old thing she always called
a wart on rugs, a rock to lift --
but never moved and dusted
like a precious mink
in closets of the very rich.
Dimes between the cushion cracks.
Songs of sweat on beaten arms.
I had to keep this monument.
All your craters, all your perils,
all your Hells had settled here.

####

Janet Buck is a three-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry.

Her work has recently appeared in CrossConnect, Avatar Review, OffCourse, Facets, The Pedestal Magazine, Comrades, Three Candles, Stirring, Sand to Glass, The American Muse, and hundreds of journals world-wide.

In 2002, Buck's poetry is scheduled to appear in PoetryBay, Artemis, The Montserrat Review, Recursive Angel, The Carriage House Review, Southern Ocean Review, Gertrude, and The Pittsburgh Quarterly.  For links to more of her work, see:http://members.aol.com/jbuck22874/whatsnew.html

She can be reached at: jbuck22874@aol.com.