by Paul Sohar

The black-padded bench has quit its post

by the glass-topped coffee table

in an executive anteroom

to wander out to the corridor,

and it’s slowly ambling through the icy

frenzy of a business day.

The black imitation leather of the padding

seems to mourn something never born

yet able to power the four slender steel

legs without even moving them,

and now the bench crawls unstoppably

in the glass-lined corridor of

shapeless fears and hopes,

slithering over memos, project plans,

and the toes of carefully guarded memories,

the tongues of crippled dreams;

nothing can stop the bench,

the wall-to-wall carpet hasn’t got the guts,

common sense and work ethic step back into

conference rooms and glare at the frosted-glass walls,

looking for a calendar poster or a party photo,

a clue to what the black padding mourns.


Author bio:
Paul Sohar got to pursue his life-long interest in literature full time when he went on disability from his job in a chemistry lab. The results have slowly crept into Chelsea, Chiron Review,, Grain, Good Foot, Hunger, Partisan Review, Poem, Poesy, Pudding, Rattle, Runes, Seneca Review, etc, and six books of translations from the Hungarian

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