The Chairs We Sit On

An ode to my lazy chair

From out here you look awkward and austere defined by fault lines on a linoleum bed you may sit on for the rest of my life We’re separated threadbare by the event of my surrendering to your sickle-moon arms Placed in them you rock me sternly like a forlorn mother into a symposium of transiting angels and demons whispering lullabies in my ears All day I’ve been running away and here in this lapping motion I find my mind still as Voltaire’s tomb eyes —clear, sistine glass And when slow winds caress my cheeks I think of you — another tired soul besides me in this vantage point where clouds thin into rimmed salt around sips of the mottled sun like being by a summer ocean where the surf has dragged between the passage of time just to say “Come away and do nothing for a while.”

Author Notes: I have an ancestral rocking-chair, probably older than I am. It doesn’t complement any of the furniture in my living room; on the contrary it’s a sore sight. Looking at it , you know it’s only there for comfort, an escape route perched over a large cricket field, now overgrown with weeds.

Thank you for reading, lovely readers!