A Place to Sit

A three-legged chair
stood at one side of the room.

I
went up to it.

I took hold of the back
and sat down slowly.

Once I was seated
the chair could hardly be seen.

Only the painting
could be seen.

I
painted a long time
from this seat.

Leaning forward,
sitting back again,
raising my arm and lowering it.

The paintings
left the room one by one.

Some
went far.

Some
I never saw again.

The chair
remained.

A chair I had made
with my own hands.

I
ran my palm
along its edge.

The grain of the wood
caught my hand.

Places worn smooth.
Places worn hollow.

Places my body
had long touched.

“You
have held up a great deal.”

The chair
did not even creak.

When I sat
it held me,
and when I rose
it was empty.

That was all.

I
stood up slowly.

I took hold of the back
to sit again,

then let go.

I went to the far wall

and turned around.

For the first time
I looked a long while
at the chair I was not sitting in.

On the three-legged chair
no one
was sitting.