Across the room, across many rooms
since 1830, it waits stoically.
Puckered leather back sunken a bit,
about an inch, or some inches lower
to fit the little ones—the armrests’
well-worn finish, buffeted to its essence.
So long at rest, hands that reached
for its weathered knobs,
over almost two centuries,
worn down, from the tug and lift
that helped us rise.
Jean Cassidy 2023
