Chair


Tall.
Blonde.

Fold the cold cubicle. Bend the walls.
She sits and where she sits a warmth exists.
Fold the cubicle. Legs. Lips.

My pale afflicted chest, fragile jail of harmful heart,
rattles like a hammer hits the bone.
Not only is she sitting just beyond a phony wall,
but she sits where she is sitting alone.

Hair.
Hair.
Shoulders.
Chair.


Donald Zirilli
1997