Sitting In a Yellow Chair
I'm sitting in a yellow chair reading a book
I wish I hadn't started.
One in which a plane crashes and
everyone but an artist dies.
Somehow I identify with him.
I am reading to quickly finish the story.
It is well written but nothing like what I prefer.
The book haunts me in my dreams.
I must get it over with.
So, here I sit in a yellow chair,
A man, but not a sales person wants to point out
that I am sitting in an expensive chair.
He says I should pay rent. I smile.
I know the chair well and feel I have in a sense
already paid the rent.
It is a yellow Saarinen Womb chair and foot rest.
My daughter spent three years living in a Saarinen dorm,
part of the time playing hockey in a Saarinen rink.
Besides, decades earlier Ereo and his brother would
wander down to the Cranbrook painting studio the watch
my sixteen year old aunt spread yellow oil paint on canvas.
They were boys. She was cute.
I sit in the yellow chair.
Paris 2017 #60