A chair, old wooden kitchen chair, layers of paint flaking;
you can hear it scraping back on the linoleum, the man of
the house clearing his throat with much the same sound,
50 years ago, as he leaves to finish chores. It sits in the
grass, probably one leg shorter than the others but still
fine for resting, whittling, leaning back against the shed.
Two fifty. Two will take it. It displays a certain character,
a quiet dignity, sitting apart from the jars of lag bolts and
rusty washers, loud and laughing children’s clothes that
hang on a sagging line, restless in the breeze.
