The Tip Tow

I was out of breath in this chair,
thinking of all the ways my maker could make up his mind about me,
who shall die by fire,
who by water,
who by the hand of another,

I clinched my hands in the crooked wood on the side of this chair,
musing about the tree of life,
and which of its branches belonged to me,
and which of them would give way to nature

I crossed my legs and propped them up on the bottom of this rocker,
and counted the wrinkles in my palms,
and realized there was very little difference between them and my fingerprints

I twirled my hair aimlessly,
hoping that a life adrift would somehow circumnavigate

I was choking in this room, in this chair,
recalling all the ways I let you down,
recalling how my pride got the best of me,

and so I let my maker make me,
in this house,
in this room,
in this chair of yours,

we made our deal