A Toast by Jim Senetto


A Toast

I toast the armchair
where you sat laughing,
reading that book we found
in a garage sale
and I pour another
scanning the bookshelf
for the title
but it seems you took that
with you
when the ultimatum
of “me or the booze”
fell short of expectations.

I toast that azalea
outside the window;
you planted that, my gift
to ease confrontation
though it too withers
without your touch
as I watch the doorknob
for any sign of turning
but darkness comes,
setting last on the door
where I carried you across
the threshold
to my oblivion.

blackpooljimmyAPJim Senetto about Jim Senetto

My father was quiet; loving, provider but quiet…I never knew a grandfather, his side, or his brother lost at 28 and I was told not to ask. So quiet I was…me, the quiet one, second echelon in a group of friends…quiet in the confessional booth I was brought to…why tell a stranger, in a dark booth sitting behind mesh, my woes, thinking it just might be his woes were worse than mine (I’ve later learned, some in collars should have sat on the other side of that mesh window, confessing). I was drafted in ’66, taught how to kill strangers and my mouth began to question why and with some friends now dead from bullets of insanity, I became alive, vowing never to be as quiet as my father. He had his reasons, I’m sure, old school and all of that, but I had to break the chain. Art, photography, music, poetry is my voice and it’s all fair game…say it loud, some will listen and that is good enough for me.

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