Some days I still long
for the big brown chair,
my parents used to own.
It was round, ribbed,
yellow mustard corduroy.
I’d spin one way, then the other,
pause, eleven, listening
to Cat Stevens sing.
Losing everything,
hands, eyes, legs, mouth,
sounded like nothing to fear
under a benevolent,
faithful light the way
he sang it.
Moonshadows
connect my life
like a thread
chaining each and every moment.
Once a full moon followed me
over snowy Nottingham roads,
trees limbs encased in inches of ice
while that song played
and I knew I might slip
or slide, but I’d be alright.
I long for that old
brown chair still.
I want to curl up
and unspin
this crazy world
I’ve grown up in
and listen to every song
on that album.