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That is my take of the not chest in the attic prompt for Friday the 13 th.
After the passing of my grandmother
We decided to clear the house
From top to bottom
We started by the attic
Trunks aplenty amongst
Bursting boxes of books
And disparate bits of furniture
Covered with dust
Veiled with spider webs
A musty smell of mice droppings
Created a certain atmosphere
Remnants of the owl meals
Were strewn on the floor
It would take time to clear it all.
It was there in the corner
Under a moth eaten blanket
A rustic chair handmade
Thick planks barely sanded
A skull had been carved in the back
In the measly light
Let in through the oeuil de boeuf
Stains could be seen
Splashed all over it
Old stains
It was a chilly sight.
When suddenly my Aunty screamed
"The execution chair"
She crossed herself
And ran downstairs.
It took me ages to grasp
What she was about
It was the chair
Where poultry, lambs, pigs
Were dispatched from this world.
It was the cause of Aunty
Becoming a vegan
She created such a fuss
That the chair had been banned
To the attic in the first place.
Twas not difficult to imagine
Grandma plucking feathers in that chair
With a definite gusto
Salivating already
At the idea of a succulent roast to be
Or her cleaning pig guts,
Dunking bread and soaking in the succulent
Wine Sauce of tripes,
She wa a meat lover gourmet.
Lucette C Bailliet
All rights reserved
Credit photo Unknown
