The Reading Chair Poem by Gordon R Menzies

The Reading Chair on Lonely Island
has a coffee-stained cushion, the breeze
wanders in past torn-screen windows
the King birds and the lake are calling
stacks of well-worn books on one arm
hand-smoothed, fingerprint to grain
my smudged glasses on my knee
glint of scratched brass on sunlit denim
buzzing mosquito wings past my ear
like a fragment of memory loosed, lands,
tip-toes across tanned fingers, probes
the cracks in my skin, in my senses
but I am lost in the leaves, soundly stuck
in the tar pit ink of these stories
she drinks her fill and moves on
as they have always done, always