I’ve seen them in a dining-room
after the guests have gone
turn to each other and murmur,
bored with heated argument
and hissy whispered gossip.
In an emptied room, at last,
chairs express a view.
Free of careless bodies,
they show off shapely curves
(carved for a long career
supporting difficult backs),
their strong but slender legs
and seats of leather polished
by those who merely slump.
There were some in a garden once,
arms tilted over a bench
to avoid collecting rain.
They formed a family group
averse to being disturbed—
but a fire was lit, the steaks cooked
and they were yanked apart.
I knew a grieving armchair
after the husband left.
It wore an air of dismay,
mocked by the ticking clock,
snores from contented cushions.
Clearly its vacant seat
yearned for the lost man.
That’s the thing about chairs,
they’re built to last, to outlive
generations of owners.
The heirs will take them off
to get re-sprung and re-covered.
Outwitting the effects of time,
they have the last laugh.