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.
Copyright © Catherine Reinke | Year Posted 2009
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