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.