​Chair
by
Eoghan Lyng

​I wonder how many people have sat in this chair and asked their questions of who and why
would sit inside when outside the world is walking.

I wonder how many poets have sat here
reflecting their words and heard in themselves
your voice.

There´s a wine in your hand where should be a ring,
cigarette stains on the table hand rails.
There´s a raw heart beating through immutable sleeping
and his voice is echoeing still.

And yet you are here, you have always been here,
a part of the class you prevail.
A forgiving world enters the space you inhabit
and the world is lifted in place.

I wonder in part of the crack in your heart,
will it mend like this wood stuck intact?

Eoghan Lyng

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