The Chair on Cazneau Street

It came from a skip
dressed down with dust and chipped legs.
I swapped a skipping rope for it
put on my best frock
sat outside our front door like a Queen.

You got fed up with the rope, trapping ankles.
I need to sit down, you moaned.
I took the chair inside.
Woke up to you at my door, banging,
trying to wake me up.

When I brought it out
back clutched to my chest,
you stared with eyes the size of moons.
Giz a go. You said.
The clang from the skip-collector's van.
I thought you'd never leave.

By Deborah Morgan