Reclining against a wall, side-by-side, are three taupe seats
Each of them supported by a corroded, three-forked stand
And the floor beneath, littered with several strewn sheets
In a room that is clearly in need of a broom’s helping hand.
Not mere seats – each signifies a phase of her mortal life
A hope-driven, though bumpy, ride all the way through
From birth to burial; womb to when she became a wife
“A medley of mistakes plus mishaps,” is so apt a review.
The tattered backdrop there is, well, where she hailed from
– nothing but inelegant, unappealing, coarse, & distressed.
A flirty foster father and a sick-in-the-head surrogate mom
In a chaotic homestead did leave her constantly depressed.
The torn parts were how she struggled with her background,
Frustrated by, unforgiving of, utterly loathing herself over it
Her ill-luck was courtesy of it was what she could propound
She didn’t deserve, she’d say, such childhood – not one bit!
How could God permit her own ‘father’ to violate her at will?
Why would He allow some crazy mom be indifferent in it all?
What other supplication did she need to offer up to Him still?
Who’ll convince her that her lot in life is anything but small?
Selfsame small self-esteem led her to nod in the affirmative
to the first-ever gentleman that seemed genuinely into her.
His coming into her life turned out comforting, and curative
Who’d have predicted their conjugal peace’d soon hit a stir?
Five boys and six years later, he’d elope with some lady
Leaving a truckload of debts behind, plus a fake identity
The law’d confiscate all assets – all his deals were shady
Financial wellbeing’d elope and with it, her entire sanity.
Yet, all through, she dwelt in this very room of expectation
Wishing her past never occurred, and that it would change
Hoping anything that came next’d be a God-sent allocation
And that all the puzzles of her life would rightly rearrange.
Sadly, life displays neither respect nor reward for one’s past,
Nor compassion for one’s circumstance however misshapen
That it is rough does not mean it’d smoothen out at long last
So why spend our present waiting for the past to un-happen?
But she’d keep haranguing on the streets that life reimburses all it owed her
Demanding recompense for an unfair ugly past she didn’t bring on herself
Till a surviving son, tired of her dementia’d push her off a bridge on a spur.
Claiming it is good riddance, he called her a cursed book now off his shelf.