Sunday, 18 March 2012

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Office Chair

Sometimes I think that it wouldn’t be so bad to swap places with the office chair. When the last of my colleagues leave, stopping the lines of tubular light, the air will start to tick.

Dark particles will settle like dust and fill the corridors and rooms like sea invading a sinking ship. Museum silence while the chair that’s turned into me goes home to his wife and kids.

In the morning, they’ll arrive in ones and twos. Each of them will have something and nothing to say. Some of them will donate a hat, coat or scarf to my friend the hat stand. After that, they pretty much leave the thin fellow alone. But I tell you, I’m the lucky one.

Each morning she puts her loveliness into my silver arms. I hold her the whole day long as her fingers peck like hungry birds at the letter-seeds she scatters onto a white screen of snow.


  1. inanimately beautiful.

    i love, "the air will start to tick" and the last stanza!




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