Stand Alone Poetry

TRAVEL CHANNEL

The chair is cracked, crusted
with the remnants of countless meals,
smelling of urine and booze,
saturated with nicotine,
dark stains belying uses
not acknowledged, she hid in
for so many years,
nor even remembered,
as she sits
repeating the litany
over and again.
“I love the Travel Channel –
spent my whole life trying to get back to this chair,
and now – that it is too late –
I can’t get up, only watch”
As she bleakly, hopelessly
stares at feet swollen triple sized
with pus oozing from broken pustules,
the flesh no longer intact
as bit by bit
it fails away, melting into the chair
She hid n for so many years,
and now is trapped within,
dissolving, dissembling,
fading into the stained black ooze
crusted on the seat.

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