Chairs

When I was twelve, a blossoming girl,

My Granddaddy Lou gave me,

A hand-crafted, mahogany,

Dining chair from the colonial northeast.

 

He said the chair was a gift,

From his granddaddy after the war,

With “Lewis” etched in vintage script,

On the periphery of the left arm.

 

The chair boasted a glossy shine,

Intricate detailing spiraled spindles and stiles,

The only sign to show its time,

A chip in the leg from Senile Nigel.

 

Solid and sturdy through my uncertainty,

Like Denali in a blizzard storm,

Stood sits through misfits of my quarter century,

Reliable as the sunrise in the morn.

But just as the wind blows, the present flows,

And tastes change unconditionally,

One Sunday in that Scandinavian store,

Bestowed a rival of contemporary.

 

A navy blue, bowl shaped seat,

Made of wood-plastic composite,

Short, no arms, self-assembly,

Mass produced for profit.

 

Although the quality was spurious,

The sophistication allured.

Longevity in style, dubious,

But right now, minimalism endured.

 

And Granddaddy Lou’s chair was outdated,

No longer fit my aesthetic,

Orange and clunky wood faded,

From my interests and perspective.

 

Fantasized of my novel piece,

In the corner next to the Sansevieria,

Underneath, a faux, sheepskin rug,

À la mode for a progressive Aquarius.

 

So I went with my twice-broken heart,

And purchased the modern seat,

With giddy flutters for new beginnings,

And hopes for true identity.

 

Then drove to the pawnshop down the street,

Where I sold my nostalgia and peace,

Knowing someone with further insight,

Would love it more than me.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I love this poem. My mom was quite a good painter, and I am sitting here looking up at one of my favorite paintings of hers. Two chairs on a porch, empty.
I imagine my folks sitting in those two chairs together. They never get outdated, those chairs.
And I would never take them to the pawn shop....but sometimes we get rid of memories like that...
we just reluctantly let them go...and then sometimes we go back to that pawn shop and buy them back, like a painting we just can't let go of.
j.