Wednesday, April 7, 2010

PAD Challenge - Day 7

Prompt for today: Write a poem with the title "Until ____".

Until The Guests Leave

Until the guests leave,
there's no telling
What will happen.
A goblet could chip or crack.
I might say something stupid
Or hear something stupid.

The wife could undermine our marriage,
Or the husband start an argument.
These are touchy people.
Anything might happen.

Until the guests leave,
I watch the trinkets closely.
Was that antique teacup moved?
Did someone touch the TV screen
With greasy fingers?

Until the guests leave,
I think if I uncross my legs
They won't consider me lady-like.

Until the guests leave,
I have to keep brushing that pesky strand
Of hair out of my face.
I'm sitting straight as can be,
smiling, looking directly, friendly,
at whoever is talking.

Someone made a joke.
I don't know what it was,
I was too busy counting the cookies
out the corner of my eye
Making sure we wouldn't run out
And seeing if there were enough
for me to take one more.

I laugh along with them,
certain that's what I would have done
If I had been paying attention.
But don't laugh too long.
I don't know how funny it actually was.
I reach for a cookie.

So does the husband. No problem.
There will still be enough
If my husband and the other wife want one.
But he takes two!
The cookie is already in my hand.
There's not enough for everyone.

I can't put it back. I can't eat it.
They might think I'm a greedy hostess.
I put it on a napkin
And set it on my husband's knee.
Now if he wants one, there's enough.

Until the guests leave,
I must ignore my aching back.
I can't adjust. Don't want to draw attention.

Until the guests leave,
I keep blinking as a way
To keep me occupied, counting the blinks.
No! Stop that! They'll see.
They'll think something's wrong with my eye.

Do you know how hard it is
To keep from blinking once you're aware of it?
I know, because the guests won't leave!

I think the conversation
Is getting a little too intense.
I need to cause something to happen.

I stand up, hoping it will signal to them
That one of us is tired,
And they should call it a night.
I don't even know what they're talking about.

I begin to clean up from supper.
The wife comes and gives me a hand.
At last! Things are starting to wrap up.
But it takes four hours to get them out the door.

I slump in the living room,
Legs straight out, back bent.
Hair hanging in my face,
And scratching all the little itches
That've been bugging me all night.
I couldn't scratch them and be rude
Until the guests left.

1 comment:

  1. My day 8 poem:


    Four hands covered in yellow Finger paint.
    Two tongues wet with lemonade.
    With two pairs of shoes tied Together,
    We run.
    We trip.
    We fall.
    Two white shirts,
    Now stained with green.
    Two pairs of flawed jeans.
    Spots of gold run along four legs.
    Two pairs of socks
    Holding dirt, like a cup.
    Four eyes, blue as the sky,
    Soft as a baby’s butt.
    And so,
    Dirty as we are,
    We hold each other’s
    Stained, finger-painted, dirty