The Kitchen Chair

The Kitchen Chair I am a chair and speak for once I shall quiet no more of my life I’ve seen. This gift to speak, given to me only this day, I will my life’s import to reveal and my secrets, a simplicity task. I am not like the others, in the sitting room pretty nor the bedroom compliment spreads or curtains. No these not I , no such chair I’m certain. For daily use, abuse, I’m worn and torn. In the kitchen I go unnoticed yet housed daily, a comfort do I stand. For privilege I have believed when one of four, a family. Favored I am, by head of household whom all eagerly await: children’s tummies hungry, sometimes past eight for Daddies come threw, white picket gate. For it is he, whom comfort I charitable give. He who provides, so they, the other three can live. Out each day into the cold, toil coal mine, lost soul… no where to find, how he can each evening smile, such kindness where does he find? No complaint, from blackened face when at the table he takes his place. For he the root of this tree, the tree they call their family. And I , daily use, abuse, worn and tear gladly give to them I swear. For I have learned from new to used, my life’s service, …merit… given me, happily giving simple solid comfort to this kitchen family. So pretty sitting nor compliment chair both gladly dismiss I, when giving unnoticed, consistent comfort to my possessor , so relief he might sigh.