Poem by Chad Parenteau

Photo by Sandy Payne



Poetry Isn't Everything

My father is too literal for humor: Me: What did the chair
say to the lamp? Him: Nothing. It's a chair. It's a lamp.
What's wrong with you? My mind makes itself sick

with metaphor but put everything on hold when Dad got sick
with cancer, made weekly visits to a jaded hospital chair
for chemo. Today, x-rays probe remaining disease like a lamp

in a shoebox. My last visit, he was too weak to turn on his lamp.
How many tiny metaphorical deaths did he have while sick?
He would have said none, not even then in his parlor chair.

He'd have said, on his chair by the lamp, What's with you? I'm only sick.