Chairs
By George Szirtes
It was the empty chairs he feared,
not those with a proper behind rammed into them,
not those littered with stray bits of food or waste paper.
It was the voices that did not speak,
the wheezes and creaks the chairs didn’t make.
The kicking over, the collapse,
the broken legs of chairs, the everyday business.
To see them ranged about a table
turned in on themselves as for a ritual,
that was the unsettling thing, and that one there,
yes, that one with its open arms
and its invitation to sit,
its somnolence, its stab at dignity
its emptiness, was the very devil.
Copyright © by the owner.
