Tuesday, June 9, 2015

The Chair

Hurry up, go, bring the chair. 
If we don’t sit this very minute
Who knows what will happen to us, what
Will happen next, what things we’ll do
To regret.  I go get the cabinet ASAP.
I rip apart its four sides for a good one to sit on.
I take a limb from the birch we felled to save the rest
And saw it in half.  I notice the original
Well-pin, hand-hewn with the care of someone
Who draws water from the earth, absurdly
Abandoned in the weeds.  I go get it,
And on the way I pick up a steel rod that sat
Upstairs a hundred years under the brick smokehouse.
I mount the new legs on the new seat with old nails,
Rope, and a welded anchor bolt. 
I remove my sweater unraveling at the cuff,
Torn at the hem, the one my grandmother knitted,
And ball it up for a cushion. Here, it’s all yours,
The way poems get made and are meant to be sat upon
To put off a little what happens next. 

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