A Brief History of an Inanimate Object
by Candace Turner

               Bang, slams the screen door.
The boy is home.
Backpack plops into my lap.
Feet stomp up the stairs.

               The man arrives,
his long, black coat drapes
around my neck. Hat & gloves
keep my seat warm.

               Often, too often,
in the quiet pre-dawn morning,
the weeping woman sits in my dark corner
seeking solitude, only I can offer.

               Occasionally, I’m carried to the dining table,
where I reluctantly cradle
an uninvited guest, whom I truly
hope won’t stay for dessert.

               If you should ever choose to
sit upon the chair in the corner,
listen very carefully.
It may share a litany of secrets …

               Because the chair in the corner
               is so much more than simply a chair.



 

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