The Truth About Tigers

I write these words from a chair
that doesn’t quite belong—
wicker-backed, cushion reupholstered
too many times to remember.
Light brown now, red ferns curling
across fabric just shy of ugly.

The seat, once firm,
now perches loose atop its frame,
clatters to the floor with a careless shift,
a sudden rising.

Once, it had a set.
Once, it had arms.
Now, only the hollowed-out joints remain,
like knotted oak where branches once grew.

It sat at the head of the table.
My grandfather’s chair.
He’s gone now, but I keep it,
though I’ve never been one for heirlooms,
have little patience for clutter,
a tendency that borders on compulsion.

Yet the chair remains.
Out of place in my bedroom,
incongruous with a small desk,
where I now sit at the keyboard,
writing these words.