The Old Wing Chair

In the corner sitting,
Its arms curved out to hold,
Its wooden hands protruding,
Stretching and resting,
From its sea green damask clothes,
Upon its slightly bending legs,
Clawed to the rug below,
Awaiting in its making
Room for two if one was small,
To be there snuggled in a lap,
When happy or when sad,
Now worn in spots,
With traces in its threads,
Of all the times it held the two,
A father and a son
Who imagines again him sitting there,
His arms held out to hold.