The way
You cradle my ***
Steals my comfort,
Like a thief true to the black mask painted on you
You are not wood, but a trees revenge.
Plaguing my body with discomfort
Repercussive of the agony from flannel coated lumberjacks, way back when
Four legs
Must be sneakier
Than two, for no two legged beast has yet robbed me.
But my chair,
Does so daily.
Yet I
Come back to you, I
Sit atop of you
Expecting in your apparent antiquity
To soak some of that wisdom so often attributed to my elders around campfires.
I guess you only give me that gift when you burn.
And so
I should have known
By the hollow shout I hear
Echo when I trampoline my knuckles on your skin
As Dorothy knocked upon Tinman, finding not his heart-
Neither do I find yours.
Or is
It admirable
Perhaps, that you support me even as I presently slander you
As Atlas supported the world,
Whose stars that stabbed him in the back
For that
I certainly will
Return to you tomorrow
And while you are not the most sittable chair
you are at least my loyal chair
A ha!
The wisdom promised
Is found, without striking a match
And dancing around
Your burning, crackling corpse.
In fact,
I promise you this
I shall save you first
In the event of a fire.
