Padded chairs

I sink into this leather foam, taking turns
to remember a child, handling stories,
books to tell, to say slowly the contents
of backs, arms, betraying love, lost but
remembered as hugs and close tales
are told.

It's black or white or usually the opposite
of what's going to be boldly taken over
by cleaning or not, to trifle with the
aging process, as more value incurs
to debt, to process lives lived, silence
told to others, listening intently.

As we write, we listen to this chair,
seated we know comfort, know dire
necessities of baking ham, eggs, scrambled
in silence as eggs process in sleep, the
arms of making, writing these countless
deposits of love.

Seated there, we lounge, watching, hoping
for endurance in accomplishing a task,
a hoop, a goal to embrace young life,
young, but constricted by the sublime,
it trails, an eddy, an estate, sold with
abandon.

© 2015 Larry Ingram