The Chair and the Light Pulsing on Its Rails

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Abandoned in the middle of the blasted field,

its arms shredded, legs battered,

the chair exists in broken splendor

catching the best of the speckled light

dancing in the quivering shadows.

Lines of the seated father stain the backrest,

motherly molds are left behind in the seat foam,

the relentless kicks, tattoos of children’s feet

bruise the red velvet of the front rail.

 

At dawn, pulses of light run along its sides

dispersing all shadows to the wet ground.

At the speed of forgetfulness

two robins alight on this storm orphan,

widow, widower, this sole survivor,

with twigs to build a new stick home.