10,000 dollar chair

we go into the beautiful store
to cosplay rich people.
it is one of our favorite games.
you put on your gloves.
i take out my teeth & resolve
not to smile. you know the place 
is expensive if there are 
no price tags. it is time to be afraid.
the store today only has one chair.
it wears a sign hung around its neck
that reads, "do not sit, do not ever sit."
i imagine a world where
for years i try to save up for this chair.
maybe it is a thousand dollars
or maybe it is ten thousand dollars.
i would not put on my costume. i would
walk in here & say "i'm here to sit."
why do i knit fantasies of revenge wealth?
i do not want a chair. i do not even want
a mouth full of rings. 
instead, i live the tombstone tooth life. 
ghosts play hide & seek in my mouth.
when we are done i return 
to an apartment of an apartment.
i go to my room & find the chair
waiting for me. i'm terrified. i close the door
to contain it. i don't know what
it would want from me. i am just
a boy of a girl or a girl of a boy 
(depending on who you ask).
i am just a body with your average 
millionaire day dreams. i tell myself
"if i had blank i would blank." 
i open the door a crack to peer in
at the chair. it is closer. an inch
from the crack in the door. i cry,
"what do you want?" 
everything, i assume. i think it wants
my everything. my hungers 
& my tomorrow doorbells. i call you
but you do not pick up. i wonder 
if it has already gotten you.
"i do not want to play the game again,"
i say on a voicemail. turn to see
the door to my room wide open.
the chair at the threshold trembling.