by James Sennett
chair
was not Bonnie’s.
How could it be?
None of the telltale
slouching evident
in the faded cushions
made of crushed
flowers of
indiscriminate species.
Fitting just so
for the visitor
to lounge for a bit
before taking the money
of the neighbor
you hated
for stealing your recipe
of some pie
or other.
Like it mattered
anyway.