Inside beige rooms or taken out
to feel the breeze or the sun,
they sit in chairs that roll or don’t,
recline or don’t, chairs that bear
the imprint of long sitting.  They sit
when the bells ring for matins, nones,
and compline. They sit for meals, for Bingo,
for TV–the set fixed on reruns of The Rifleman,
Gunsmoke, and Bonanza—a world as black
and white as the sitting and not sitting.

They come to love their chairs
like a worn-in pair of shoes, like home.  

The chairs receive them, skinny buttocks,
out-of-style pants–too loose, too long,
that once fit to a T.  They receive
cushioned Depends, crumbs
from afternoon snack, the seeping
of every accident.  The chairs are sturdy,
made of plastic,  rubber, and steel,
and they take the wear.  The chairs retain
their value. When the one who sits
wears out, the chair will be passed on.