Write ten poems about a chair,
ten different chairs, or one chair
in ten different rooms, ten different people,
ten chairs abandoned.

Ten chairs broken, like the time
you plopped down on an heirloom
in Tyler’s apartment, ten useless chairs,
ten-used-to-be chairs.

Ten executions in an electric chair,
ten bodies burned, wasted,
hung up on revenge.
Ten stories of broken systems,
ten chairs holding nine justices
and one chairman, the committee
for briefcases full of hundred dollar bills
and ivory towers topped with little chairs.

Ten monologues to a vacant chair,
the dark stuff, tickled throats
and a transatlantic accent
talking beyond the grave
to someone who used to sit in this chair.

The director in a canvass-backed chair,
picturing ten different angles,
ten ways to put light on James Stewart,
bound by his broken leg
and curious lens.
Ten city halls finally installing
handicapped spaces and wheelchair ramps.

Ten torsos bent over chairs,
anonymous sex and Heimlich maneuvers
saving lives wherever people
are willing to put things in their mouths in a hurry.

Ten camping chairs, a bonfire,
ten bottles of Missouri red and

ten more after that, drinking
to how damp and happy they are,
to how sweet the river tastes,
how good it feels to wash the day away
and relax in a chair.