musical chairs

i wish the house would
stop playing musical chairs,
it's getting to be too much & i'm tired.
first with the kitchen, just a few mornings ago,
i noticed a red pleather arm chair at
the breakfast bar that i had never seen before,
i touched the surface & it rocked 
like an egg on a counter top. 
sitting down, cautiously a faint
song began, like a carnival tune
only made of wood. scanning the house
i found several other chairs that i
had never seen before; an extravagant 
emerald throne & a simple
white wooden stool, both standing in the middle
of the living room like strangers, guests maybe.
i talked to them, i said,
i don't know what you want with me.
& only late into the night did i begin
to understand. i wanted to call 
you but i was embarrassed 
about it all, i told you i was
working on having a more sturdy reality
& here i go with all of this.
i called my mom & hung up the phone
when she answered. the house began
to play musical chairs, it had invited
guests & i watched from the door
of my room. all the guests,
old guests & new guests & nightgown guests,
all of them meandering around the kitchen,
waiting for the music to stop.
i knew i had to join them, so i did,
i wondered to myself if purgatory 
would be something like this,
like a cold kitchen with mismatched chairs.
instead of taking them away the guests
added chairs, the brought them 
in through the window. the house
gave life to chairs. everything 
is a chair or was a chair, my mom
was a really beautiful chair, a blue
recliner with grandmom's cigarette ash
as stuffing. i would be-- i would be 
maybe a dining room chair with one
wobbly leg & tasteful red upholstery.
when the guests lose they lay, face down
on the floor. each morning, now
i take the lost-guests out with the trash,
they're light as big plush dolls.
more & more chairs. i try to sit 
in them all each day but it becomes
nearly impossible. the ones that i miss
always go & turn into cats. they scale 
the ceiling. they meow. i ask them
to come down but they just hiss.
i call my mom & tell her to come over
& sit. i recall the rocking chair
in my old bed room, the one
grandmom gave her when i was born,
it rocks like an egg. i want to crack it.
i  hang up before she answers.
there's eight cats on the ceiling
& more chairs coming &
the music stops.