I plan to write a poem about Time, and Doubt, and perhaps Love,
So one Sunday in October, I pour myself some tea,
and I lay back to write, but my chair is laughing at me.
Why does my chair laugh at me?
What does the chair laugh at?
My bold lack of talent?
Does my chair laugh at me because I am funny?
Or is it, in fact, screaming?
A friend points out that the chair may be a ghost,
of a freshly departed spirit,
conveyed by me to her in a picture.
(RIP, Daniel Johnston.)
“You have something with 👀,” she says.
I can see that.
“And you’re lazy. You saw that from the bed.”
She is not lazy.
She is observant, for someone who only sat on that bed once.