Furniture is clutter and sentiment.
You know- that pull in your gut when you have to throw it out?
Because the Adirondack chair brings back
The smoke on her breath as she shot blanks from her mouth
into the air over a concrete sidewalk-
The slurp the slip downwards
At the corner of her lips
Leaning back into the nestle and hum of a chair
In this instance wood is bones
And the cradle of her rib cage is
supporting my back
September is still warm
The wicker is less comfortable.
I’ll keep the chair until it truly festers on the front porch