you sit in it – simple enough. it supports you, whatever that means. that is unchanged.
it bears your weight, maybe shifts, maybe settles underneath you. it does this in silence.
it comes in different sizes, shapes, textures.
sometimes it’s made of wood: full of splinters, easily cut, shaped into something else, but the thought of it being anything other than a chair scares you.
other times it’s metal, smooth and impenetrable. it smudges easily and everyone knows you’ve been there.
maybe it’s porous, full of caverns to dip into. maybe it’s neon, eye-catching; maybe it’s gray, quiet.
it might have a place to rest your elbows, it might curve at the back for flair. the legs might be thick, sturdy.
it might tip easily or be too heavy to carry alone. maybe it stacks, maybe it folds and gets put away when it isn’t needed.
it comes in a set with others just like it,
maybe it’s too firm, or maybe it’s inviting; you sink into it at the end of the day, deep and familiar.
always a chair.