I am a chair whenever I create a lap,
a zigzag leg-seat-back, I am
the useful locus for a feline nap.
I am as well the pillow to be plumped,
the bread dough to be kneaded twenty-thousand
prickly times before it’s put to rest.
And since a lap’s a temporary thing,
when I stand up I am the possibility
of an appliance making its robotic way
toward that room where all the food is kept.
Maybe I’m an opener of cans or vacuum packs;
maybe a harmonic fork that tunes a dish.
There seems no end to all the furnishings I am:
a bookshelf with one open book to walk upon,
a stretch of sofa for an evening massage.
I am an entertainment center playing
daily shows, before a blase audience
that doesn’t care if I am with or without clothes.
Love keeps me patient inexplicably
to serve as furniture wherever opportunity
appears. When an embarrassment of wisps occurs
on my upholstery, clings to my everything,
I don’t apologize, but simply mention
how the major syllable of furniture is fur.