At We Write Poems, we were asked to write about a guardian angel. I have always known mine, but in this particular circumstance, I do believe she nearly saved my life. Filed under “Amy: The Lost Years.”

Who Did I Hear?

We’re hangin’ out back
in a converted garage
that is tacky but serves
as a home, for now.

Rafters overhead hold
mic stands that belong to
The New Riders of the Purple Sage
(I can’t make this stuff up).

I’m comfy on a couch but
suddenly extremely thirsty.
Someone offers me a beer
from the lukewarm coffin,

but I need something cold.
RIGHT AWAY. Can’t say
what’s in my brain, but I
jump up and go out the door.

Two seconds later, CRASH!
And looking at the couch
where I was sitting moments before,
a mic stand had fallen, base first.

If you ever lifted one of those suckers,
you know they’re damned heavy,
plus it shattered a framed picture
on its way to my former nest.

Something, someone told me,
Must have been my grandma Blanche,
who knew all about brain trauma…

…and the need for a really cold beer.

(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil