Poor Chair.
I pushed you to the fringe
Of our apartment in an
attempt
To avoid your ugly mustard
shade.
You- my sweet wife’s bastard
child
Fathered by an unknown
upholsterer-
I despised and expelled from
the den.
Placing you in the cold and
quiet sunroom,
I moved you as far away
From my favorite bookcase as
possible.
In this quiet sanctuary you
stood
alone and with no one to talk to
Save the elitist stationary
bike who
Criticized your slouching
stature.
I remember Thomas the Hobo
slouching
at the corner of Burgandy and
Touro
near Washington Square.
I stopped to have a cigarette
With Maggie the accordion
player
And observed his lonely
quarters in
The alley. He slept in a
corner
By the dumpster on aged
carpet
And a Van Gogh window pinned
To the wall showed a
beautiful night never to be.
A small patch of
Sunlight poured through slits
of
a condemned roof.
In his sanctuary, Thomas
rested.
Maggie never understood the
merits of visual art.
Days soon became weeks but no
comfort
Came to you besides the
occasional visit
Of the missus.
She with her earl gray spent
Hours in your weakened arms
Flipping through Matisse and
Laying foundations for the
future.
I cursed you for this and
Left my comfortable position
at the
Desk to join my wife with you
In the bright but chilled
space.
Sometimes the rain plays a
game
With each brainwave it
interrupts.
I found myself unable to
sleep
And driving to the store for
Milk and bread. I stopped
And had a drink on the way
Home but lay awake
Like Caligari’s monster.
The rain pitter pattered and
I considered each aspect
Of my life in hopes that
boredom
Would send gentle pleas to
the Sandman.
Stumbling to the kitchen, I
Poured a tall glass of water
and
Selected a book from my favorite
Bookcase and followed each
line
In search of rest.
Slowly, crawling up the
armrest
To the top of your faded
head, a sweet
Silence over took my mind.
A vibrating purr softened the
twisted alloys
Of my attentions and my
thoughts
Quietly lay down in their
beds.
Thank you for that.
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