by Billy Thrasher
The wrought iron bench used to sit below
the picture window, between
the wrought iron rocker and dining chair,
with pierced feet anchored into concrete,
by sweat from Dad who deterred thieves. Elementary
school friends sat, with feet on the short table,
threw pebbles at honeybees buzzing
above white and purple water lilies floating
in the half-barrel. One lean friend
shouted play by plays of past football games
from his crooked mouth like Howard Cosell,
“He could go all the way.” Friends bounced the rocker,
jumped on the bench and chair, shook them beyond
their limits. Wrought iron, hammered, rolled, and shaped
for fun times. Everyone who sat got stamped,
crisscrossed legs, backs, arms – a gift, gratitude
for the company. When kids were at school
mom sat in the rocker, wet swimsuit, feet
on the short table next to a glass of
Mogen David. The dog lay under the bench, its
belly vibrating, panting into a puddle.
Mom. Exhausted. Left.
Now, at the corner of the house,
the seat of the wrought iron bench, spotted with crusty
purple-and-white seeded bird droppings,
sags like the belly of a middle-aged man,
just above the wild onions.
About the Author:
Billy Thrasher is a graduate of the MFA program at Lindenwood University. He writes at home, at the coffee shop, at the park, and in his car during lunch breaks. The simple, brief moments in life catch his attention and spark his creativity. He has written works published in Dovecote Magazine, White Wall Review, As You Were: The Military Review, Dunes Review, Rougarou, Outlook Springs, received a Pushcart nominee from Hive Avenue Literary Journal, and published in the Best of BarBar 2024.