My Favourite Chair.

My Favourite Chair.
By Martin McColl

Not yet cold, not vacant
Still the jealousies awakened
Already talk of 'warm a bit'
"We've seen the back of that old git.
Out with the old,
In with the new."
Not even sat in vicar's pew.

She sees us here
But unconsoling flaunts
Her right to de-clutter,
As she mutters
Contempt at my attempt.
Gives voice to childhood discontent.
Admits mal-intent.
Prepares this place to rent.

My grandmother stands so, still stern,
Sees lack of all obedience
And offers not right time of day,
To disrespectful 'wans' as they.

A WAKE?
Here e'en the dirge is scourged.
Best now tae sleep wi' suff'rin' purged.

Weep not now as you assume
A rightful place inside this room
With inalterable, uncomplicated acceptance of duty
Your yellowed throw worn through
Has aged like me but not as you,
E'en so seems cruel for her to taunt you,
With a new one? A blue one?
Our fun is done!
You've had my time!
What image has this new wife
Leased for thee this time?

I cannot see
Soon to embers I will be
Still I remember.

Once your arms were full and firm,
Enough to hold me.
I draped myself over you,
Flirting with more than one attracted lover
Still you held me.
Now slackened limbs that could no longer
Hold e'en my frail an' lifeless frame
Drape only faded paper skin o'er infirm bones
That need that throw to cover.
How soon will you discover?

Now with your arms almost bare,
As tousled sprouts of horses hair
Spring forth from unintended tears,
And with your back to yon' recess,
Both motion and emotion less,
Sit thee and ponder my regrets
As you two grow old and cold

Of this new mistress you beware,
We are a pair!
What labels at me did she speak?
Complain of odours? I was weak?
For you in fondness though concede
"You are not old, you are antique!"

So now alas my years have passed.
Onto a keeper new you pass.
Your loyalty I felt imparted
As oft' you held me broken-hearted.

You loved me well.
I'm now for hell.

Consider you with fond regret
I never cared for your hearts felt.
As you look on my coffin there,
With that 'derisatory' stare,
You might blame me for her idea
Of feigned familial repair
Still this last time you'll hear my prayer,
And always be my favourite chair.