Clearance Conscience

It was a sign that my fear of change
had to be faced:
the office furniture store down the street
was having one of its outdoor used swivel-chair sales
as I was driving by en route to my union hall.
I told myself I'd stop by on my way back
not sure if I actually would.
My desk set at home was the same one
my mother bought for me when we moved away
from my father's town thirteen years ago.
It'd served me well throughout that time.
The chair, however, had been designed for someone
with a wet weight half of my current size.
As a result the padding was not so comfortable anymore
and I could only manage to sit at the computer
for forty minutes at a time without having to stretch
my legs and relieve my sore behind.

I did the unthinkable and stopped on the way back.
The chairs were strewn about randomly with no
regard for color, quality, style or price.
A middle-aged salesman with a purple coldsore
on his upper lip came outside and greeted me.
I asked about the one that caught my eye, a hunter green
number in excellent shape that sat low to the ground.
He fumbled with the paddle underneath the seat in an
attempt to show me how to raise it before realizing
it was broken. I offered him five less than the suggested price.
He told me he'd let it go for ten instead. How could I argue with
a deal like that? I paid and placed it in the bed of my truck
checking my rear-view a few times on the ride home
as if it'd somehow fall out and spare me the chore of
replacing my old faithful wooden number.

It felt like sneaking a paramore into the house.
I lumbered up the creaking stairs with it
like a clumsier Frankenstein's monster.
The rabbit ran when she heard the racket.
Then again, she ran whenever I approached.
I wheeled the chair into place next to Old Faithful.
Same height, more or less, with a favoring on the less side.
Shamefully I rolled the old chair away and slid the new one
in front of the desk. I sat and set my hands
on the keyboard with little-to-no regard for the "home row"
they tried pounding into my muscle memory in my ninth-grade
keyboarding class. I was up to ninety-something words-per-minute
but went right back to my hybrid style of hunting and punching
as soon as the semester was over. It's not that I can't be trained;
it's more a matter of stubborn resistance.

The mouse felt a bit out of reach with the slightly lower position
but the arm rests served as a pivot point on which to rest
my elbows. The keyboard was also a fraction higher
and marginally out of reach, but part of me liked that aspect.
It felt as though I were stepping up to the plate to write.
That's how it should be; otherwise you're doing it wrong.

I looked over at Old Faithful in its temporary position in the corner.
The diving knife I strapped to its leg when I was fifteen and
my stepfather first moved in would have to be removed.
An honorable legend further stripped of glory; it felt like sin
and not that kind that we revel in at night. The kind
that we try to hide from the friends who truly matter.

So hear I sit in this second-hand chair that's new enough for me
typing away about an oddity of life that could only be
over-analyzed by with someone with too much time and heart.
If it were any other way you'd be surprised, though.
The most sacred things never change.