The Chair

She always sits on the edges of chairs at her home

As if she cannot fully insert herself in a coziness and slowness

As if she needs to be always ready for immediate response

As if to fetch this and that

To frequently empty the chairs and fill in half again

With her mind pulled and diverged towards various points

As if she cannot be converged anywhere to savour anything fully

It's as if she is always aware of a perpetual temporariness of sitting

Her duty bound body making sure of others' permanency in those deep sockets

Then there is her department chair

The only place where she soaked herself up in an illusion of constancy

Where it seemed she is capable of drowning herself in her favourites

Words, conversations, arguments and a lot of brainstorming

Pinpointing this, applauding that, analysing many and cherishing some

The chair where she would forget its perpetual temporariness

With hardly any consequence.