“Chair”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Dozing in my desk chair

A moment to reflect and escape

While still partly awake

Body on the brink

Those beyond the veil, will respond

With a nod and a wink

And I need nothing more than to be suspended

Above the office floor

In this wheeled perch

Lost before a glowing monitor screen

On an internet search

Did someone notice, when I took a detour?

I went running out the kitchen door

A refugee from the family

A seeker, solitary and sane

Called by my stage name

It must have surprised more than a few

When I kicked off a muddy residue

From my engineer boots

In the middle of a banquet held to honor those

Who kept close to the king in his death throes

An act, both loyal and lazy

They labeled me as wild and crazy

Which I took as a compliment

Roses and wine

A pocket watch, ticking away time

Such gifts have no meaning when the dreamscape is thick

No charts for the traveler

No markings on the yardstick

Merely a vapor of the vanquished, wafting from the pit

Where a vintage motorcycle sits

Stilled and stalled

A rocking, roadrunner held in thrall

That was the vision as I tilted backward

At an angle that tempted my body to tumble

Oddly capricious, yet undeniably humble

In awe of the void

A chaser of childlike napping

It is the compliment to an audience, clapping

When I have finished reciting my work

Hands folded, head bowed

Applause! applause!

Let it last, long and loud

Though I must admit to not paying attention

The sound seems too foreign for an honorable mention

This adulation leaves me cold

Fingers curled against my palms

Breathing breaths of antiseptic wipes, and an arthritic balm

From the other room

Leftover scents in the cabinet

They remind me of cares now surrendered

Debt dutifully tendered

To a self that disappeared in the dark of night

I gave up the good fight

Preferring to catch a seat on the train

As my interests waned

In anything other than a moment of rest

It came as no surprise

To be put to the test

Teased and teetering

Ancient scrolls, effectively metering

My pace from the cradle to a burial plot

Leather soles leave their imprint

Tracing that journey like the ink of a fountain pen

Not that it will matter, to anyone, when

The race is run

As a holy man exclaimed, “It is done! It is done!”

A twist of the camera lens, to conclude

Behold, the blessed interlude

Let me now close my eyes

And sweetly recline