I don’t own an armchair. It occurred to me
the other day at the doctor’s office.
What else is my house missing?
Plenty of clutter greets me each morning,
but hours can be eaten by such omnivorous endeavors
as clearing out.
Something is always clean;
certain spots are often tidy;
ordered clarity lurks in the corners,
but never the three meet on the same
sunny day.
The house holds more than one soul
must needs. Small
things
carry immense remembrance, not so
the big.
Not much care for matched sofas
and tassels
and drapes.
Floaty curtains absent in kitchen windows –
the porch is the best on a fall day;
the irregular triangle yard, a hot field in summer
outlined by tea olive hedge.
Conversation flits between laughter and the
smell of cinnamon rolls and tears spill
next to the spaghetti sauce.
At the end of each fall the ladybugs
crawl between the window frame and wall,
a pilgrimage to our side before death. By the hundreds
they pay final respects and lay wings down
on the sills:
their forever home – mine will have
an armchair.
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