Gone Potting

Among the array of silver pans there is a gleaming pot
that sits on the stove. It was bought with a gift card from Home Depot.
The stove in the kitchen is where families gather Sundays for dinners of potluck
and gossip about whose Uncle or Husband these days, is battling impotency.
It all begins with bottles of beers Uncle Jimmy chugged ’til he pisses in the flower pot.
Now that ticks off Grandma ’cause it’s an antique piece of Navajo Indian clay pottery.
So, Grandpa gets up and has to make peace in the room while holding still his pot belly
as Grandma swears that’s the last time Jimmy will ever taste her original pot roast.
And why the hell does Jimmy need to be eating all of this potassium
when his cholesterol’s shooting off the charts from his love of potatoes
and red meat? He’ll never find a wife! And Jimmy screams, “You despot!”
Now that makes for nice family memories of Sundays with faint smells of potpourri
and I laugh as my friend says, “My family’s fucked up too. We have genetic Pott’s
disease.” Poor guy, that’s why he convinces us to go out partying and drink Poteen,
illegally imported by an Irishman who rants and raves in Gaelic but is named Potemkin,
until we remember our physics professor who died driving drunk after he hit a pothole.
Then we remove the flask from our faces and my friend says, “Gimme something potent,”
and Irishman says, “Like some grass?” and my friend says, “No asshole, like some pot.”
Red eyed and droopy lidded, we hear my friend’s adamant statement, assess the potential
of our evening, then pay off the Irishman for his herb and leave the house to go potting.


About Margaret Wang

In this crazy World, if we have something to say we should say it; whether in word, song, dance or paint. As writers, we write what we must, what we see, what we feel and what others experience but cannot articulate or understand. This is the duty and power of the writer; to release into the world our visions and our passions as if bleeding dry. Here at Stuck Pig I give you my word and hope that my voice reaches like minds so they know they are not alone, and unlike minds so they may share my glasses for a day. This is life lived as me, digested by me and translated for anyone caring to step out of their shoes for a few paragraph’s length. I am vulnerable and opinionated. You may judge me justly or unjustly, as I judge the rest of the world. I invite you to view Life through my window. View all posts by Margaret Wang

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