His Chair
They’ve cleared the rooms,
feeding the fire
with what’s left of his life.
Only the chair remains
in a miasma of old man,
pipe smoke, Rich Tea crumbs.
The cat by the footstool
waits for the gnarled, caressing hand.
Fragments of poetry float
from tattered chairside books
to settle on the cushions,
searching for his voice to give them life.
Soldier pals, freed from his memory
stand by the threadbare arms
in mute salute.
Outside, the riotous garden,
triumphant with birdsong, calls out
reminding him it is Spring.
All in vain, for he is gone,
flown to the corner of the room, to watch
as the careless flames take hold.