Poet of the Week: Amanda Johnston

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a chair is not a house and a house is not a home
when there’s no one there to hold you tight. ~ Luther Vandross

Tucked under an overpass – a bedroom
with no walls. An Oriental rug divides highway soot and city
muck from what is claimed as home. In the center of the rug
a queen size bed with fitted sheets and a turned down comforter
revealing two dusty white pillows. Heads rest there
under thousands of pounds of concrete and steel trusting
that the weight of the world will not come crashing down.
Is love made there in that bed? Do the world’s voyeurs
discover over and over the exposed room
its contents and nothingness on display:
yes, it is this simple. This too is a life worth sharing.

I consider my home; cookie cutter stability in a shaky market.
How would my life fit under a bridge? Would there be room
for the fridge, the racks of shoes, my second living room set?
Is the plasma TV enough? Its blank face reflecting our empty
arms and wayward dreams. Would he remember the lines?

For better, for worse
For richer, for poorer

Would that sealing kiss of vows hold our binding?
Would there still be two pillows on our queen size bed?


Published online at The Drunken Boat.com

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