PARKING CHAIR

the other’s for him
and his fat ass
oh I don’t mind

sitting on the steps
seems more neighborly
to me. Ha, the other’s

our parking chair
used to be in my ma’s
kitchen, yeah, cigarette

burns through the plastic
seat, long gone, like her.
1920—he bought those

at the hardware store.
Took him all day to get them
even. Yet he don’t mind

the ugliness of the chair.
He’s a lot like the dog here,
faithful, in his own way.

Somebody parks in his spot,
ha, that’ll set him off.
And I’d like to see it.