The neighbor’s chair is sitting on the curb

The neighbor’s chair is sitting on the curb,

a bleached and skeletal thing in the drizzle.

It looks like the kind of silence you shouldn’t disturb,

all gray ribs and sun-rotted gristle.

I tripped on a loose reed in the dark

and felt my good wool sock give way.

It left a jagged, triangular mark

where the weave had finally decided to stray.

There is no way to weave it back tight

once the sap has dried out of the wood.

You just leave it out for the trucks in the night

and hope the rain makes it look like it should.