Maurice Oliver
Do You Read Me, Copy?

His chair can purr.

He takes it everywhere he goes.
Some say he feels this unusual
closeness because the chair
reminds him of the basic animal
instinct in all of us. Others insist
the chair is simply his “security
blanket” he’ll never have to wash.
Whatever the reason, year after
year he carries it over a shoulder.
He once even had it upholstered in
a flame-stitch pattern using colors
taken from the rainbow. But the
chair remained non-committal with
sturdy legs. It prides itself in being
a perfect dance partner and never
eats meat. It can be positioned in
an endless variety of angles and
has a built-in microphone. Best of
all, when he finishes this life he can
just fold it up and ship it by parcel
post to that place, rumored to be
somewhere beyond the white light.

***

Author's comment: Sometimes when I write I feel like I'm high above the circus tent walking a tightrope between seriousness and giddiness. When that happens, giddiness always wins hands down and the poems turn out to be as light as air and as wiry and hard as the wire I walk on. These poems are two examples.

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