if there's an inanimate object that understands the most
how people come and go—
how people stay and share their stories
but eventually leave and move forward—
it's chairs and tables and mundane corners
in cafès and restaurants and libraries
it's the seats in hospital waiting rooms, benches by the ocean and lakeshore, cotton-soft mat on the grass and foldable camping chairs under the trees
it's the shotgun seat of sedans (new throne for a new queen)
that witness coming and going, staying and leaving
perhaps that's where my fascination with chairs and furniture come from—it's not just about how it looks but the poems called moments made with each piece
i used to ramble on this while sitting on an old and rusty chair that my grandmother got from our neighbor who was planning to throw it away, now I'm rewriting this as I sit on a squeaky black chair that I brought home from the office—and that's a story for another day