Rocking Chair

Winter blows in.
We are unnecessary,
sit still,
are dumped on
by the more virulent of snow,
the stuff that flies sideways.

We’re not thought about much.
When someone inside the house
looks out,
they see over under or through us.
The weather’s their concern.
It would be ours too
if we only had apprehensions.

But we’re filed under furniture
and not the cozy kind
that groups around a fireplace,
or the utile stuff
that supports the likes of meals
and sleeping bodies.

We’re here for warm sunsets
wine glasses,
gently swaying bodies,
and eyes looking westward.
And during something called summer.
At least, that’s the theory.

Even then, there’s storms.
And stuff that needs doing.
And arguments.
And phone call interruptions.
And just about everything
that can happen to a human
that applies not one iota
to a rocking chair.
Except for the absences.
The times we’re just a chair.

by John Grey

Editor’s Note: The personification in this poem is a skillful stand in (or sit in, as the case may be) for the messiness of human relationships.