Sunday, April 19, 2015

The Chair Man

“I’m wary of it all,” he says
His bones crack, or is it his chair…
I’m not sure
He carries luggage below his eyes
Filled with stuff he’s known before
Each story grows like the hair on his giant head
Gray strands that leap to the back, or sweep off to the left or right
Chaotic at first glance
Then you realize it all works together

He looks tired like most people who live in well-worn chairs
The stories aren't thick like the ones I remembered
I was the grandchild, curious with just a little imagination
And a Dr. Pepper in a green tinted bottle
He called it sweet water
I called it champagne because the name sounded right
He’d saw off a chaw and put it deep in his cheek
(I never told him he looked like a gopher)
Back then, his face was starting to show markers, and his eyes
His eyes always looked hungry
“It happened like this,” he'd say, and I knew not to question his truth
Gospel came from that man’s mouth
And I believed

He hears and tells stories now and he doesn't know if they're his
Details aren’t what they used to be
He forgets a little, and he sighs a lot
But I still listen

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