How Often the Music Stops

The world is full of empty chairs,
Any moment, every moment.
Most of them are just sitting there,

Silently, alone or in rows,
At a table, available,
Formal, visual echoes

Of a shape our bodies can take,
An option, an alternative
To the more ancient shapes we make,

Standing, squatting, kneeling, lying.
Who knows when someone first built
A chair, why they bothered trying?

For someone too fragile for earth,
Who uses logs and stones for seats
And cherishes a secure perch,

Every empty chair is precious,
A beckoning island of rest,
But it’s loneliness they suggest.