The Truth About Tigers

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

The seat, once firm,
now sits loose on its frame,
clatters to the floor with a careless shift,
a sudden stand.

Once, it had arms.
Now only the hollowed joints remain,
knotted oak where branches used to be.

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.

Still, the chair remains.
Out of place in my bedroom,
awkward beside a small desk,
where I sit at the keyboard,
writing these words.