We sat in the same chair dad did
And tried to keep it warm the same way he did
For the kids we’d never have
Because the winters seemed colder
Than they once did
And the sun seemed to favor other towns
Instead of ours
And dad said the chair was the only thing he’d ever loved
When he died
But sometimes we found light elsewhere
In screaming flesh
Or wood and string Or the hook beckoning something to feed
Or the destruction of will to leave
Or dissolving self into inanimate objects
Because the threads of the chair
Needed our weight
And our audience craved our failure
Because both provisions were tradition
Because someday we’d tell someone
That we loved the chair too
Even though we didn’t