He loves the chair that groans,
loves its quaky threats to fail;
loves to settle at five thirty onto
its cracked leather cushion that
sags from steady affection - joints
rickshaw shaky, legs chestnut strong.
“One day,” he thinks, “gorilla glue
to the rescue.” The chair is a lifeboat.
It has carried more than backsides.
It’s held whole vituperative lumps,
huffing and mottled, waving fists
like distant lines on the Serengeti.
He loves stories about species saved;
smug on his faithful quay beside
unsympathetic seas, he watches
for their note in a bottle.
The chair is an eddy - it swirls
dread like fetid foam, clings to
the bitter edge of sweet. The chair
is a nest – sticks and skins wound
over centuries, middened with
sweat and worry, securing his kin,
night after night since Lascaux.
The chair is tired too, it moans
for empty moments, prays for
just reward, threatens to give in -
seeks rescue from gorilla’s glue.