The plastic chair complains each sit,
Remembering every weight on it.
It cracks like thunder, bends with dread,
Yet somehow never fully dead.
One leg shorter than the rest,
It turns stillness into a test.
At family events it takes the stage,
An aging actor past its age.
Children spin it recklessly fast,
Adults inspect it unsurprised.
The heat leaves patterns on my skin,
Temporary maps of where I’ve been.
It waits outside through rain and dust,
Faithful mostly out of rust.
Guests fear collapse with every sound,
The chair enjoys keeping them wound.
Yet during long and quiet talks,
It holds generations without pause.
A throne of cheap enduring grace,
Supporting every tired face.
