They face each other with a deathly calm,
Two old chairs in the dark with florals frayed.
Spindle held leaves clawed climb o’er each arm,
Thread-broken petals ripped raw and decayed.
One seat depressed with rests aged down but clear;
Silhouette of a soul, sad and alone.
The other is pristine, there’s no mark here;
The ghost of the man that I’ve never known.
Sun shoots through windows shored thickly with dust
Searing limp cloth as it fires from outside,
Splintering off panes imprisoned in rust
But shines off the letter and badge on the side.
A lifetime after he left his armchair
His wife’s not alone, for he is still there.