There's a chair in the middle of the room,
It presses against carpet with four thin legs
and is stuck rigid
forced to endure.
It's master gives no promise
that it will be relieved of it's duty,
the wooden frame groans
as decaying muscle waits.
Brown jacket sits on an unfamiliar lap.
Naked pockets inside lay thin and sick
as the material weeps over knees
Foreign hands curl gently and lame;
they fall loose, then rise
as jacket smothers hair and face
and becomes engulfed
in a smell that stains the fabric
from the outside.