The chair where I wrote my poems is sold –
A machine and a table will fill that space,
We will admire the new chatter and the clatter,
And watch the other chairs circle around
I was too far to have known the details,
Perhaps it wasn’t necessary,
Since I wouldn’t write now anyway,
And the price of wood was in its prime.
However, instead of a chair, wished it was a pet –
They don’t size up a dead pet’s master,
And you can’t sell it’s bones to make one new,
Nor ask that price and regret having asked.