Three Blind Chairs

In the waiting room,
three blind chairs
against the entry wall,
one for me, the others free,

until an old man sits to breathe
as his wife signs a decree
for the receptionist
at the counter,

bent is she but smiles
and sits next to me smelling
of potpourri, the lavender shadow
of my old piano teacher,

Colorado, says he
in chair number three,
then Alaska somewhat louder,
Idaho Lake speaking
from a magazine,
It says here, says he,
and Shsh � you�re too loud,
says she, their shoulders
two hills to meet beneath
earlobes long familiar,

and then almost at my feet
her name a polite suggestion,
Stay here, says she and rises
to smile at a girl in white
who waits for her to straighten,

off past the counter,
away from me and he whose
mind is on his magazine,
where to go, whom to be
on one more journey,
lips moving

I decide my legs to free,
leave him peacefully
to observe polished stones
beside eyeglasses winking
in fancy frames,
then wander further still
my own dear wife to meet
at the doorway
of a well-lit room
prepared for lengthy news
from a rotund optician,

Pay then leave, says he
eventually, and we agree
upon the notion,

drift toward the place
where we came in,
the old man and his wife ahead,
our three chairs cold
and blind again.

November 2, 2006

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