A stick won’t stick to a wall, so why is it called a stick? Likewise, why aren’t love and ghost the same word? Both are dead and invisible. - Jarod Kintz

Sometimes I’ll forget a utensil’s name, and I’ll say, “Give me that pointy thing,” as I point with my pointy finger.

I can bench press steam, but not fog. I just have to wait until the fog lifts itself.

The Chair

I’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chair
look like a throne while you sat on it.

Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor,
which is dusty as a dry Kansas day.

I am stoic as a statue of Buddha,
not wanting to bother the old wooden chair,

which has been silent now for months.
In this sunlit moment I think of you.

I can still picture you sitting there — your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt,

the light splashed on your face,
like holy water from St. Joseph’s.

The chair, with rounded curves
like that of a full-figured woman,

seems as mellow as a monk in prayer.
The breeze blows from beyond the curtains,

as if your spirit has come back to rest.
Now a cloud passes overhead,

and I hush, waiting to hear what rests
so heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind.

Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carry
your raspy voice like a wispy cloud.