“You’d be surprised by how many chairs people leave on the street.”  Maira Kalman

WITH BOTH ARMS AND A BACK

At dusk great cushions of humid air unstuffed

Themselves beyond our windows, opaque and torn,

Littering the edge of the lawn as if it were a green alley

Between hand and eye play, upholding an old craft.

You sent me a picture of an almost broken chair

In a broken lot, your rucksack slung there to soften the scene.

It hurts my elbows to look at Kalman’s abandoned chair

In the new issue of Smithsonian.  August is heavy.

I am replacing gin with Bragg’s apple cider vinegar.

I married a traveling man. Long ago

In the parlor my father slipped off a horsehair chair.

I’ve seen straw stuffing become nests. Repositories.

You built me a throne and called it Penelope.

It has ears, a rug, and a hard boarded seat.

Mary Todd Lincoln sorrowed upon an upholstered sofa.

The coil springs pricked up through the scrim like weeds.