Ask the Colonial style furniture
on which I’m sitting.
It will tell you
I’m a heavyweight
but compared to the ledge
that juts into the basement
of this ragged, saggy house,
I weigh nothing. In 1890
instead of blasting
they figured it out and
put the house on that stone
then dug room for stone walls
around it and for 132 years
they’ve borne the weight
of all the wood and mice
and people who’ve been here.
Don’t tell that to my furniture,
though. It denies history
and the earth that holds it up.
It hogs the glory for bearing my weight
as if it has been my sole support.
Maybe it doesn’t know how often
I go to the basement and thank
the ledge and the dirt floor
for their years of service
to my big, dumb ass
and all the asses big and small
that came before me.
Don’t listen to the furniture.
It has forgotten that it came from
the same earth. It wants to take
all the credit for holding me up.
It’s as much
colonizer
as its dated style
would suggest.
Dark Matter 