Evening

I’m sitting on four legs in the evening and I can’t stand it so I throw it out the window. I’m too old for this shit. There’s no private shame and there’s no private disgrace. I head outside. I find it on the sidewalk still together in one piece. A Greek design made of oak, nicely varnished, still doesn’t look too worn. Upright now, two legs, I can pick it up and bust it against the wall proper. It isn’t long before the police arrive and they ask me what I think I’m doing. I tell them how much I hate my father, that son-of-a-bitch, and how bad he used to beat me. I hate my father too, one says, and he shows me his scars. The other one doesn’t speak, he just pulls out his gun and shoots the chair. Now it has three legs.