The Secret Life of Chairs
Poem by John Thomson   •   Photo by Jerry Garcia
  




Viciously then,
I lock the door

to the applause
of retreating footsteps.

A scattering of chairs
loiters the room,

each imprinted with
the person they held.

In silhouette, their
outstretched arms

seem to
beg forgiveness.

As the hall fills
with midnight

and a fragment of music
escapes from the street,

the chairs circle like wolves
around me.

The nearest containing
all of your absence.







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