A fake rattan chair

I have long wanted to get a chair

Not that kind of wooden chair, but a rattan chair

Preferably the kind with a solid frame of limbs

And the worn luster of the old rattan chair

Like my father's as a child worker kind

But now, there is no one

no longer do that kind of laborious handwork

In the summer, I finally found one

It was the kind of artificial plastic imitation

Just because of the position of its buttocks and backrest

A rare harmony with my long, thin body

I didn't bargain for a penny and carried it

carried back to the rented room

placed in a position near the window

At first, I thought every day

how I should sit on it

reading books, sunbathing, thinking about some "hard" questions

But except for one or two times

I read two pages of Paulo Coelho and Yu Jian on it.

I quickly tossed it aside

Now, the fake wicker chair with the black lacquered iron frame

It is like a tired butler

retiring prematurely. On top of it, in a disorderly pile

An old briefcase, four unwashed tops, and three pairs of pants.

Two cell phones, a few books of poetry, and a copy of The Golden Rose

And a pair of white bras that had just been removed from my girlfriend's breasts

A pair of white bras that had just been removed from my girlfriend's breasts