The Orphan
The college boys considered it a road-side treasure,
excitedly hauled the orphan home, lugged it up
worn steps and placed it (for the next three years),
none too gently on the slant-floored, over-sized stoop
mostly out of reach of rain, snow, sleet, and hail.
If not an antique, it was certainly "aged";
not a worthy investment with one leg missing,
but nothing a cinder block couldn't cure.
It's suede-like fabric boasted a distant connection
to fashion, but one had to squint to notice.
But free was a different story,
and the boys felt they'd rescued it from its beggard fate,
and many an evening and starry night were spent
playing cards, laughing, and attempting to woo a girl or two.
Napoleon Street was not as grand as its namesake,
nor did neighbors complain of the addition
as they had similar settees gracing similar porches.
Mid-day one might find clothes-lines sagging
with undergarments; I particularly was charmed
by the occasional quilt drying in a shaded oasis,
as if sunlight might damage faded and worn fabric.
Come evening, hellos and good-days emanated
from beneath these covered respits,
glasses raised, even the teetotalers joined in,
swigged down refreshing toasts on hot summer days.
Must confess I was never tempted to rest
upon the golden "velvet" couch, but was sad,
upon graduation, when I watched it hauled off
to another college porch, the boys insisting its presence
was a "legacy" to be upheld.
by Margaret Bednar, July 15, 2019
linked with "
The Sunday Muse - #64" and "
The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform".
I invite you to listen to me read my poem:
