I Want to Be an Adirondack Chair
dusted with browning plum and cherry blossoms.
I want to be outside on all days, in all weather,
to never have to go inside, choose a cookbook,
a recipe, plug in the rice cooker, peel the yams, sharpen
the knife. I want to be in earshot of the juncos
and chickadees, of the Steller’s jay
with its punk-rocker crest, as if it had been dipped
in Extreme Blue. I want to have a front row seat
when the neighbor’s paper gets delivered
at four am. I could say I want to be the mauve-leaved maple,
or the streetlight, or the dead-end sign, but really
what I want is to be a thing people sit on,
take a load off, a place where there’s just enough sun. Where,
perhaps, the mail carrier will stroll by, hand a someone
coupons and circulars, but not divorce papers,
shut-off notices, a summons for jury duty. If I could be
an Adirondack chair, I’d stop complaining
about the crumbs on the counter,
the floor, the stairs. I’d be out here, beside the blooming lavender,
so the dried mud on the hardwood floors wouldn’t matter;
I’d be overhearing my neighbors
loading their bicycles onto their car, debating whether to take I-5
or Highway 99, one reminding the other to clamp down
the tires, cuz you know what happened
last time. If I were wooden, if I were painted red, I swear I’d stop
wishing I was paddling when I’m running, running
when I’m paddling. I’d just be happy
where I am, out in the front yard, admiring my favorite feline
as she reduces a German Shephard
to a whimpering mess.
Wonderful poem.