In a house not mine, the owners away,
On a day like any other although all days are different,
I sank as one sometimes does en route
Into the gentle grave gravity of an accidental chair
Whose occupation was to be there,
And as I sank, the precincts of my mind lifted off and fell
Like a tent from the pull of ropes and guys,
Although all ropes are different,
And there was something sat in the chair, I away,
And for five minutes without ceasing,
Although the sixth minute was like any other,
The something sitting in the chair banged its fists against the arms
And stamped its feet upon the floor not mine
And, in my chair, cried and cried like a baby.