Worn, this seat,
where you leaned back, thinking
up words in strings twisted
all the better to hold
so many new worlds in place
– and more tired still when it holds someone
not you. I can almost hear its
exhalation, a gentle resigned creaking
of angles set in straining
joints, wood and metal and
wood again, its weariness echoed
in faded leather and the fraying
thread of imagination that keeps you
here when you are not.