One Chair.

I have one chair.
It was never meant to be used
as a chair.
It was an art project of my fathers.
It is an object of quiet simple beauty.
I have carried this chair around with me for years.
Until recently,
I have never used it as a chair.
The chair wasn't
a chair,
it was art.
And I wouldn't think of planting my ass on a Monet.

So what happens when a chair,
which was never meant to be a chair,
is forced to put aside it's haughty nature
and self importance,
and become just a chair out of need and necessity?

It has been three months
since I have put the chair to use;
it is my only place to sit in my new surroundings.
She got the house, and most of it's contents.
I left with a bed,
my clothes,
and the art.
And the chair, which was once part of the art collection,
is now just a chair.
The art is hung in the new place,
But the chair is now a chair.
I have forced it to be something it is not.
And it is showing it's wear and disapproval of it's new situation.
Much like me.

Tonight,
I took the chair outside,
for a trip down memory lane.
It became art again,
posed against the backdrop
of a fading sky,
on a broken down pier.

I think I will spend the rest of the week
planting my ass
on my father's Monet.
This weekend I will find another just a chair somewhere,
and let the one chair
become art again.

Just because change
has been forced upon me,
doesn't mean that I have to force change upon art.