Load-Bearing

He came in last and found his chair,

turned his back and gripped

both armrests—the white knuckles,

the knees that dipped

deliberate into the sitting.

The chair flexed once and held.

He exhaled at the bottom—

a sound that spelled

nothing more than: done.

The rolls were going around.

Nobody watched.

I watched. I found

I couldn't look away—

his hands still on the arms

a moment after landing,

reading quiet alarms

only he could read.

He reached for salt.

Somebody laughed. I lost

whatever thread I'd caught

before he sat down.

The chair. The wood.

The flex. The exhale.

What I thought I understood

about what pulls at us.