I am the chair he sits on at the desk to type his poems and letters and comments to himself and others, a strange man. He can fart while typing the most soulful lines and stink me up. I’’m used to it, and anyway what can I do to stop him or protest? I creak, I bend, I roll from beneath him and promptly he jerks me forward toward the desk, a stern taskmaster he is.
What I’ d like to do is to write my own poems about him but there I sit in front of the desk and typewriter in his absence and simply contemplate the idea. My two arms rest at my side and refuse to move upwards to the keys, but what would I write about except about being a chair, previously the side of a tree trunk? but I