What Am I
I'm squirming in my chair of oak
with narrow arms, and folks lined up
in two long rows of growing thirst
and hunger for a breath of air
Like sardines in a can of worms
we are strange, unlikely shipmates torn
between one salesman's limped plea --
the other shark who disagrees
Gray flannel suit, the stiff white shirt
with slicked down hair, accusing words
persuading few with his hot air
The black suit spews his declaration
a quite contrary explanation
Until my mind is torn in two
and in a room we must decide
Confined inside, a dozen votes
where six say yay, six more say nope
We're hanging by a thread for days
and rumor spreads, with dreadful words
He has finally coped with deadlocked folks
But sternly looks a bit provoked
We sit there like a row of stones
of wounded souls. We are excused!
We grope for keys, and leave our thrones
And as I'm walking out the door
No longer needed any more
I see the face of one accused
Then count the blessings in my life
and take a breath of freedom's air
So glad to know some welcome arms
are waiting there, at home
_____________________________________________
"Person"
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
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