The Old Chair

©2018, Olan L. Smith

Paint me colors of the spectrum

Like an old chair whose many layers show

Wear of time; carved initials, mars,

Worn patches where feet rub the spindles

Down to old wood painted green by forebears

Determined to carve a niche in the wilderness.

A place to sit at a table, on the porch, under

The shade tree long since destroyed

By elm bugs, and the wind and time take their toll.

Paint me new, dip me in thick coats,

Lay on the shellac of age, let all know that

I was here—I lived, I was, and I grew from the

Soil with roots strong and deep. I will not

Rot, the glue may be loose, and my joints dry,

But apply epoxy and clamp me snug

And I am new―layer me with paint.

(A.N. The photo above is of me (left) and a childhood friend playing cards. The chair I was sitting on is still in my possession, re-varnished and re-glued, of course there is a deeper underlying metaphor.)