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,
YOU NEED TO MOVE NOW.
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