Red Chevrolet

It was surreal,
a feeling of loneliness;
abandonment.
It was
just a chair.
With silver studs and red burgundy
and small brass wheels
with cobwebs
and dust
and cracked leather;
clawed to shreds
by the feline we called Anchovy.
I collected it from Colonial Trading,
and took it home
and spent time on it.
Reading, writing, enjoying.
And then Emily was conceived on it.
Yes, that chair; my chair.
And I gave it a home
and thirty eight years later,
I delivered it
with great sadness
to the recycling centre
on York Way; my wife, long gone.
And then I drove away
in my red Chevrolet.
And wept.