They’re plain and padded, others
richly appointed,
their
backs high, proud, and embroidered,
arms
polished, curved, and ending in scrollwork
like
limbs that have decided to close their hands.
They
are placed on the sides of sofas and long tables
as
if guarding them from the wrong type of occupant.
The
more monastic are placed in corners or next to doors
to
keep a watchful eye on matters of state.
Sometimes
they are twins poised on either side of a marble table
with
a bright lamp of bronze illuminating dark, cold veins.
They
are quiet citizens of wide halls and palaces where,
despite
the traffic, heavy or light, no one ever sits.
All
of these four-legged guards, invisible to most,
are
always empty, lovers waiting to spoon or, more likely,
are
civil servants waiting to provide comfort
to
the weary and downtrodden, those who find the journey
too
oppressive on any given day.
They
embody patience, for they wait and wait,
always
empty as they wait.
It
is likely that once a year, almost certainly after midnight,
they
gather in a great metaphysical hall
that
has no beginning and no end.
It
is a conclave of silence during which they meditate
on
the comings and goings of the world,
hoping
and praying that people, no one in particular,
will
pause for a while and think of nothing but chairs,
will
stop moving from here to there,
for
if they did, the masses would lay down their arms,
would
cry cathartic rivers and find balm
for
the soul’s deep wounds and its lifetime of wear.
~William Hammett
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