The Chair

Hurry, someone, bring us a chair. 

If we don’t sit this minute

Who knows what will happen
Next, what we’ll do to regret.

I go grab the junk 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 old

Well-pin, hand-hewn with the care
Of someone who drew water

From the earth, absurdly
Abandoned in the weeds. I grab it,
And on the way pick up a steel rod that sat
A hundred years under the 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 grandma

Knitted, and ball it for a cushion.
Here, I say, it’s all yours,
The way poems get made

To be sat upon
To put off whatever comes next.