Death Of A Stool - Poem by Robert Barber
Death of a stool
Being inconspicuous was the golden rule.
Sitting in the corner by myself was very cool.
People would comment 'Oh how pretty'
When you walked in, your eyes drifted to me.
My legs, pecan tan long and slender.
My fine brown frame, a thing to remember.
As I sit alone in my corner one night.
I noticed the room was getting kinda tight.
Chairs placed precariously around the room.
Food on tables, flowers in full bloom.
People were gathering, some I've never seen.
Friends, relatives and those in between.
The music was playing, a funky groove.
People were talking laughing, eating finger food.
She lumbered around the corner, with a paper plate.
Filled to the brim with bones of wings she ate.
I tried to shrink as she looked around.
Because if she weighed an ounce, she was 500 pounds.
When she saw me I didn’t know how to act.
And when she got on me I knew the meaning of fat
My legs bent from the weight.
My frame was strained from the chickens she ate.
She took another bite and leaned back.
The weight was too great and I heard a loud crack.
Someone scream Damn! and and all I remember.
Is blood carpet and wood splinters.
When I came to my legs were short but very stable.
I was put back together as a coffee table.
Bob Barber 07
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