There are five silent chairs in this room
that are dusty and empty and lonesome for people.
What the first one needs is loving attention - someone
with strong hands to push her rungs
into place. If she were mine,
I would tighten her with some glue
and rock with her as only lovers can do.
If I had the time, I would sit on the lap
of the second one and sigh myself to sleep.
She looks so sensual with that hem
of sunlight stiched across the soft breast
of her pillow. The third one is a small fellow
with a stiff back. The plump bottom
of a maiden would make him seem less formal.
He is the only male, and his loneliness is complete.
I'm tempted to throw my jacket over his knobby shoulders.
The fourth one is more worn and experienced
than the first three. If I had this one,
I would tell her that she is still beautiful
in her gown of pink burlap with smudges of grease
and how sweetly she still sings when she creaks.
Last, but more imposing than the other four
is the bosomy old sofa. She stretches out
in all her upholstered splendor. A fat period piece
of a wild era. If I didn't have to leave,
I would scrape loose her cat hairs and telltale stains
and let her gossipy old springs fill this room with chatter.