My Precious Chair [rev] Poem by Margaret Alice Second

My office chair should be called Gethsemane - or
even Calvary since every time I drag it to my desk
I’m attacked by heavy weight & splintered wheels
drawing blood by torturing my feet and even legs
with its amazingly sharp, evil, broken fragments

I keep the chair in case I need it cause my death
through bleeding; dying presents great difficulty -
the medical profession prolongs patients’ lives to
make profit from them; when 98-year old people
die where they are kept, their off-spring besiege

nursery homes and sue for negligence, making a
fast buck; my precious chair might be a means to
depart this world through multiple infected wounds
received at work in line of duty so that - “the silver
cord is severed - the golden bowl broken and the

earthen pitcher shattered at the spring” - its from
Ecclesiastes & said beautifully; old age is not for
me unless wearing a hat like an undercover witch,
camouflaged in fruit and flower layers, immobile
in an old-age home, living on chocolates only

Which is a horrible probable future, death-by-
my-murderous-precious chair constitutes an
ever so much better vision!