The pub is empty
except for my body and the conversation
between the landlord and himself.
He’s counting the beermats on the tables
and the dust-covered wine glasses.
The dead chairs look at me and ask,
What’s wrong with us? What kind of chairs
does next door or the bar by the station have?
Why are we not trusted to hold people?
Is it because we ask difficult questions,
check in when they don’t feel ready to reply?
Is it because the windows in here are large,
open, welcoming? Are we too old? Too chatty?
I don’t know if I’m the right person to answer,
I’m the sort of guy who thinks chairs can talk to him.

© Carl Burkitt 2023