Listening to the Chair

I'm writing this while listening to the chair.
No, not the chairman – I hear furniture.
There is a meeting going on, I'm sure,
Somewhere, although I'm sure I don't know where,
And tables are complaining: It's not fair,
They tell me. Leave us be! I never stir,
Pretending I'm not feeling insecure,
Knowing my neighbour's ferrets want my hair.

I'm kidding! Tables never spoke to me!
My neighbour's pets are adequately fed
(Mind you, their beady little eyes are red,
And when they look my way so spookily
I have to spit and turn around). You see?
I'm fine. Which isn't what the damn chair said.