They say you don’t have to pick,
but you do, really. Mom or Dad,
Dad or Mom. All that glitter
where a cozy glow used to be.
A three-legged stool, broken,
and the broken leg is me.
The story you hear so often from children in divorced families. A bit sad but nicely matched to the image of the stool.
It’s all rather subtle. Trying to weave together various pieces of symbolism within these very short poems. Tricky. Always glad when any piece of it comes across. 🙂 Thanks!
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