Ten Minutes
I’ve seen the stories about rocking chairs
That sit on creaky wooden porches
That old people sit on, rocking
While smoking cigars
Or drinking iced tea
And thinking about the good old days
I see it in movies, these rocking chairs,
These old people, senile and content,
Or reflective and dissatisfied
At who they have become
At who they could have been,
And what they could have done.
I know a man with a rocking chair,
An old black man, with an old grudge,
Who used to yell at me, years ago,
When I walked by his house with my dog.
He would scream, “You better pick that shit up,
Partner,
Or I’ll cut off your fucking thumb.”
I laughed when he said it, just laughed,
And kept walking, and relayed the story
To everyone who would listen.
“And then he said, ‘Partner,’” I’d say,
And the room would be laughing,
I’d kill them, I thought, I’d kill with this story
So many things, in rocking chairs,
Are misinterpreted,
And I know this for a fact,
Because I have personally sat in one,
I rocked for hours,
And I thought about nothing
Except that warm summer breeze,
That erased all those regrets