It sat idle in the corner
where its many caverns hosted the crumbs of burnt toast and brown, copper coins.
It was his favourite place and he couldn't bear
to be anywhere else for any longer than he had to.
It smelled of him-
like ginger ale and oil,
both of which he claimed worked well for stiff joints
yet he could scarcely move after two glasses.
which had torn in some corners,
felt rough and almost sticky-unpleasant to the untrained mind but, to him,
it was perfect.
And he could sleep there for hours
while his antique shows played,
but you daren't change the channel because he was always aware,
When he emerged from his throne
it was left hollow,
moulded exactly to his shape after decades of sitting.
And I never knew it to be of any significance
until the day he stood up for the last time-
never to return-
his antiques still playing.
So many people have tried to fill his place
but could never compare to such a gentleman.
People felt uncomfortable even assuming his spot.
So we left his chair idle in the corner,
where its many caverns hosted crumbs of burnt toast and brown, copper coins
and the remnants of what once was an extraordinary man.