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.

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