Big Yellow Chair
by Patty Mooney

That big yellow chair
with its beefy
arms and tight upholstery
selected me.
You made it
your last delivery
that chilly San Francisco night.
Sinewy muscles wrestled
it up four flights. Flinging
the sweat off your face,
you inquired if I'd like to ride
your motorcycle sometime.
That Limey accent pulled me
up off that fat yellow lap.
A cold rush
of thick weather through my hair.
My first time in a gay bar.
Frothy drinks served
by a man called Tinkerbell.
The bondage and domination
that chair would inspire.
Smitten with the moving man,
too many stars to notice
the dense descent
of impenetrable fog.

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