I can’t describe the angle of the chair that I’m sitting in
It’s got a bit of a lilt backward while being suspended as a rope bridge
But not horizontally
Do you get my meaning?
It has a strutting out structure
Supporting my feet
Sometimes my calves
You can picture it, yes?
It’s made of wood
Rounded like bamboo
But not bamboo
And from the chair I can smell the cigarette smoke wafting out the window
I wonder if the butt will fall on me
As the gas is finding its way to me
It’s this the scene
For a scribble so grand
No scrabble board limitations
All the letters at hand
A little rhyme scheme
A little more lettering
And the backyard plays host
To my writer guest
Welcome you are
At my behest
You can be free here
Where no eyes can see
Except those eyes also scribbling
In this back yard with me
Roman Ryan 