"The Chair"
I feel weary
like that old chair I pass
that sits by a tree
collecting its own moss,
it has been ages
since anyone has sat in it,
it has become a part
of the tired brown scenery
as everyone ignores it
as they all
walk past,
time has begun to grow up its legs
as its color slowly fades
to muted grays and light hues
of yellow,
a relic from bygone moments
where its purpose was still relevant,
in its abandonment it has acquired
its own earthy scent,
a smell of rust and
dirt and grass,
its vinyl fabric has attained
an aged hue of brown and yellow
as the birds and insects
find their own
personal moments upon it,
spiders adorn its legs
with magnificently designed homes
of their own,
spending their entire lives
here
catching flies
underneath this chair
before being plucked away
by a bluebird's beak
for their babies,
nature moves and grows around this chair
as I watch it every morning
walking past,
one day however, it was gone,
not in its place any longer,
I saw it get picked up
and thrown in the trash,
just as well though,
it couldn't be there forever,
it left behind a plot of grass
and weeds
that grew to its shape
on the ground,
it is no longer there when I walk past,
just an irrelevant memory now,
no one even notices it has disappeared,
it had become such a part
of the weary scenery
that now that its gone
I see the weeds growing
through the cracks in the concrete,
the trees for the leaves
they do not have,
this corner of nature
for the garbage it has,
I see now only
where this chair once was.
-Armando Torres
