for my writing desk— with love and squalor…

I bought you a new chair today. Dark wood, to match your own rich grain,
with a cane back, and red velvet seat. I offered it up, slid it’s sturdy legs beneath you,
and sat down. You are not impressed. But, you seldom are.

I have moved you about the house, so often, it seems you would be able to find at least one place suitable. I kept you in the attic, for years, under the skylight, or next to a window that looked out on the river, or tucked securely into the crook of a corner. Thick green carpet beneath you, and a slanted wall of sky blue, above.

I visited you daily, brought you flowers and books. In return, you collected dust,
refused to allow your front drawer to be opened, and began to sag in one back leg,
as if you had gone lame, from my lack of productivity.

I carried you down two flights of stairs, on my back, around corners,
through narrow passageways, and stood you at the dining room window,
a Rose of Sharon blooming just outside, and the morning sun dappled across you.

I gave you a small fish tank, with a soft light, sapphire stones, and a fat, little
goldfish, named Henry. He was bright orange, he did a sort of swim wiggle,
that was rather charming. You killed him within a week.

I placed you in the center of the house, at the center of attention, and
commenced to having my breakfast with you, careful to use a placemat
for my toast, and a coaster for my coffee, which alarmed the kitchen table,
left empty each morning.

In response, you shorted out the electrical socket next to you, and scratched
the floor with your spindly legs. Also, you tossed the tiny gold, tinsel
Christmas tree I gave you to the floor. Which was promptly eaten by one
of the dogs and cost quite a bit in veterinary bills.

I moved you to the front room, to a window that looks onto the street,
with wooden shutters, that can be opened when you want the sun, or
simply desire some fresh air. I wrote every day for months. It felt, as if,
I had finally reached you. At last, appeased you.

To celebrate, I brought you a marble hourglass, and a lamp shaped like
the Eiffel Tower. An antique handle for your drawer, that now opened easily,
and a small bookcase, to relieve you of the burden that is my vast dictionary
and thesaurus collection.

The next day, you broke out in splinters along your front edge, and filled my
forearms, with slim, sharp pieces of you. It took an hour with a pair of tweezers,
and much cursing, to rid my skin of your sharp daggers. My arms were scratched, red
and itching. To the eye, it appeared as if I had lost a fight with some particularly difficult, shrubbery.

So, I bought you a new chair. Dark wood to match your own rich grain,
with a cane back, and red velvet seat. Make no mistake, this will be my
final olive branch. My last attempt at reconciliation. You see, today
I didn’t just buy you a new chair.

I bought an axe, as well.






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