God,
I’ve been sitting on this chair for ages,
simple egg in a cup
but chairs grow uncomfortable
rigid, unbendable and suddenly
a large duvet would do,
or several large friendly pillows.
Wooden chairs do not attend funerals,
but they should,
they are stern watchers,
objective,
stony men,
stalwart,
sitting there,
carrying us
laughably upon
their frames…
what does a chair want
with the luxury of
our grief?
[size=75](and they have been known
to deliberately let a bad poet
fall off of his chair…
time for a walk,
i think)[/size]