The life That Could’ve Been

By: JoJo Ball

It all started with a small can of paint,

a can of paint and a can opener.

A useless, rusty, old can opener.

The rust shone, bright as a peacock feather,

or red as the sauce on their spaghetti.

That was they’re favorite meal wasn’t it?

The clinking of the periwinkle forks

harmonized with all the conversations.

Dad would reminisce about old stars

like Kareem Abdul Jabar and MJ.

Mom would push the subject of moving back

To sunny, southern California. A

train wreck of argument was imminent.

About a favorite pair of socks stolen

when they were really sandwiched between the

couch and our infamous brown shag carpet.

I wish I had someone to blame again.

Someone to blame for this can opener.

It couldn’t crack this can any better 

than it could crack the surface of

the pond, or any body of water.

How could I paint over these grapes any ways?

Who would dedicate a room to wine?

Why not a Pina Colada or something?

Nobody drinks wine and plays horseshoes.

Nobody drinks wine at a barbeque.

And besides it stains almost everything.

It’s almost as bad as leaving an open

coffee cup in the mystery machine.

At least brown is Shaggy’s favorite color.

And besides wine is more out of place than

me in this room, away from all of them.

I’m stuck here, an army of ants without work.

This room might as well be another planet.

Ninety miles could be ninety light years.

I miss them when I think about the old life.

The life that was and still could’ve been.