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PRINGLES As I sit on this hospital visitor's chair A few feet from my wife leaning over her mother Our seven year old daughter to my right Holds in her hands an avocado green plastic keeper Filled with about sixteen perfectly formed chips Bought an hour ago in the busy market next door Looks like it could carry a little bar of Irish Spring Tortoise shell shaped top sprayed on spots of blue, white and lime Kyla merrily munches each former potato Recloses the lid after internalizing every one Walks over to her mama for reassurance Abuelita is not near death, she lies Rediscovering clear breaths from octagenerian pneumonia I lean back, don't tell my offspring the only things lasting Around her are the molded holder, the bed's metal frame, and Maybe, this poem will outlive its family as well © Don "Kingfisher" Campbell |
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Commentary: Looking even deeper into the creative process of this poem, I'd have to add that by progressively increasing my field of vision, objects which came into view provoked a building up of emotional responses; sort of an increasing wave to be harnessed. That is how it grew from a seemingly innocuous little Pringles pak, to the people in the room, to the room itself, to the relation of all this to history; a postcard created for sending to other minds. Don "Kingfisher" Campbell Bonfire contributor |