painted chairs

we spent our days in painted chairs
beneath the drunk and dusty sun,
and waited for the n.f.l.
to tell us who had won —

the blue, with johnnie walker red,
the pink, slow with a stillhouse black,
were ready for the games to start,
to see who got the sack —

the summer turned to early fall,
we left our painted chairs behind,
while those who aired their grievances
were idolized and fined —

though seasons change, the conscience can’t:
we only reap the things we plant,
and each must move as best he dares
or else we’re all just painted
chairs

Author: Owen Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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