The Promise


The deal was made-the dice was thrown

I’d keep the promise-I’d write a poem.

A “broken” chair stares back at me

“Write well” it snaps

“There’s  four of me”.


Each chair stands bare-

Disdainful air-

Like haughty old wood Royalty-

Mocking the Poet’s barren mind-

With curious reality.


The surgery will now take place-

The facelift will begin,

Where once a mane of glorious hair

Now baldness—every one.


Each nip and tuck

Each push and pull

Each patient stands serene-

With attitude of bygone age

As fashioned for a Queen.


The hands divide the seams of stress

That these proud chairs have borne-

The eye observes that “All’s not lost”

Their hearts are strong-unworn.


The threads of gold as sutures rare-

Are stitched to amber fabric

He clothes each chair with tender care

And gently weaves his magic.


They stand supreme-their lives restored

The surgery complete-

Unhindered now by creaking legs

And dirty woodstained feet.


Come—Sit and Dine-

Come—Sip fine wine-

Entertaining  friends on Sunday-

Applaud the skill the “upholsterer” holds-

Come—raise your glass and toast him!


(Four badly in need of repair, antique dining chairs were transformed By my Doctor husband’s hands. They each will bear the legacy of his blood, sweat and downwright capability.

I promised him that I would write a poem about the chairs if he managed to finish the task he had set himself. This is why I entitled the poem “The Promise”)