I wrote this for a poetry class:

CHAIR

Empty now, the chair

sits obdurate

against the wall.

Its carved, drooping arms--

gnarled as the fingers

that once clutched at them

while grappling with tricks

played by faltering memory--

are sepia colored: stained by time,

and splotched with age.

Faintly streaking the beaten legs

are flecks of mahogany:

remnants of its youth,

traces of its prime

when tots would sit on its lap

and know comfort

in the magenta, paisley-print cushion--

now paled into a sad, vague, rose (like a faded dream),

intricate design long gone;

torn around edges,

a few seams clawing at the seat,

pressing,

holding on.

In a dusky corner, the chair lingers

stiffly struggling to remain

straight on its back

like an old, old woman straining

for strength.