"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