Rickety chair 
  
 Every morning my father stands on one foot,
 arms raised in Surya Namaskar above his head
 offering prayers to a solar deity, fully absorbed
 within himself for half an hour in the rooftop, 
 and then sits down in a rickety chair
  nearby his desultory guest, 
 an amiable serene cat and smiles looking 
 at the  sunlight streaming through flowers. 
 Shiny plants, attired in colorful earthen pots
 shades of white and blue, red and brown, 
 stretches out from one end to the other. 
 A riot of colors in the myriad flowers 
 appeases his mind and eyes. 
 My father lives a routine life like he wants to 
 but he has strong connections to certain things.
 One such thing is his rickety chair.  
 Over the years it has rusted completely 
 but he thinks it looks more attractive now. 
 It’s been on the rooftop for over 20 years now. 
 Father, the chair is too old and cranky. 
 Let me replace it for you, every alternate day I shout.
  “I admit that over the years the colors have erased a bit 
  but I feel that’s what gives it  a more character, more charisma. 
 I don’t need a new chair,” looking straight in my eyes
 he always shrinks my requests.
 “Come and sit here and in just a minute it will 
 transport you into a whole new world, 
 far from the frenzied  turbulence  
 of the bustling metropolis,
 stirring and serene,” he whispered in my ear
 earlier today when I went up to give him
  a cup of masala tea .
 I just smiled and told myself, 
 no, I can’t lean back in the rickety chair
  and conjure my mind and spread my arms
  to hug the world around me.
  I may land painfully on my hip.
 “It’s alright my son,” my father said sensing my dilemma.
 Nonetheless, to appreciate and thank the chair
  that has brought me this far.  I decided to sit in the chair.
  “Close your eyes, take a deep breath 
 and enjoy the journey my son,” he said with a big grin on his face.
 Morning air embroidered with his smiles created senses
  that evoked the beauty of an impending era.
 “We don’t need a new chair. 
 This chair is very comfortable,” I told my father.
 He smiled. 
 We both smiled
 as the immigrants in a new city 
 they soon will be embracing as their own. 

Bhuwan Thapaliya is a poet writing in English from Kathmandu, Nepal. He works as an economist and is the author of four poetry collections. His poems have been published in numerous periodicals such as Pendemics Literary Journal,  Trouvaille Review,  Pandemic Magazine, The Poet,  Valient Scribe, Strong Verse, Jerry Jazz Musician,  Ponder Savant,  Mindful of Poetry – Page for Africa, International Times,  Taj Mahal Review,  Poetry Life and Times, VOICES (Education Project), Longfellow Literary Project, Poets Against the War among many others.

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