It niggled you, that wooden chair
left where it fell in brambles by old tenants.
Its curved, white bones, deformed
by winter, kept calling you over to caress
an arm scratched well beyond repair.
You propped it up in sunlight to document
its rust and meagre paint, performed
with your Kodak a biographical kindness

then grabbed it from behind just like a mugger;
held a stern Doc Marten on its back
and jerked and slammed till stiff legs severed.
I felt each strident, drawn out crack
then met your eyes as you delivered
your all done smile, a low, forewarning chuckle.