Armchair

 Armchair

That armchair is bigger than it has any right to be.
It was comely once, had a polished sheen,
wiped down with your damp rag—how it gleamed.
And I recall how you deliberately picked it out
when the previous one split its seams,
became a bouquet of drab hanging rags,
tatty and shapeless, a bundle of old bags,
a parade of children’s discarded flags
after the Queen’s limousine had long swept past,
hidden from sight, shoved under the stairs,
like a tap dripping lunatic, straitjacketed -
but consider it not so deeply—it will drive you mad,
for though always ungainly, you didn’t mind
it taking up too much space in the living room.
That was then. This is now—
Remember how they struggled to get it in somehow,
anyhow—and how will they ever manage?
One of a set of three. Even if the springs are gone,
look—they’re taking the windows from their very frames,
like discarded photos you thought you'd retain,
but now old memories gnaw like a nagging pain,
surplus to need, setting your teeth on edge,
and somewhere distant, the love has fled,
because you’ve hidden another one under the bed.
They heaved it through, set it down with care,
leaving imprints in the shag pile—and it just sits there.
How many years? Probably too many.
But you’ve not the heart, nor guts, to move it on.
If you sit on it, it sags, gives no comfort,
and how long it’s been—you’ve forgotten,
or at least, you pretend you have,
while secretly thinking back to that very last time.
It’s disappointing, depressing—you feel cast down.
It should’ve lasted. They said it was sound.
But like shoes worn too long, the leather’s faded,
cracked and scuffed in a dozen places,
while the grass keeps growing under your feet
and the years of neglect sit heavy and deep—
scuffed boots that never keep water from seeping in,
or your simulated stuffing from leaking.