Wooden chairs


God,
I've been sitting on this chair for ages.
Simple egg in a cup
but chairs grow uncomfortable,
unbendable and suddenly
a large duvet with inviting
plump cushions would do.

Wooden chairs do not attend funerals,
but they should they are stern watchers;
objective stony men,
stalwart sitting there,
supporting us
laughably upon
their frames.

What does a chair want
with the luxury of
our grief?


* Colin McGuire says "My name is McGuire: A thin 26 year old Glaswegian man, touch giddy in the head, sometimes poet of mangled form and dirty prose, sporadic drummer, drunken grammarian, waffler, painter using crayons, lover, hater, learner, teacher, pedestrian, provocateur, wanderer, confronter of shadows, irritating whine."