These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge <br />of bulky redwood were purchased for my father <br />twenty years ago, then plumped down in the yard <br />where he seldom went when he could still work <br />and never had stayed long. His left arm <br />in a sling, then lopped off, he smoked there or slept <br />while the weather lasted, watched what cars passed, <br />read stock reports, counted pills, <br />then dozed again. I didn’t go there <br />in those last weeks, sick of the delusions <br />they still maintained, their talk of plans <br />for some boat tour or a trip to the Bahamas <br />once he’d recovered. Under our willows, <br />this old set’s done well: we’ve sat with company, <br />read or taken notes—although the arm rests <br />get dry and splintery or wheels drop off <br />so the whole frame’s weakened if it’s hauled <br />across rough ground. Of course the trees, <br />too, may not last: leaves storm down, <br />branches crack off, the riddled bark <br />separates, then gets shed. I have a son, myself, <br />with things to be looked after. I sometimes think <br />since I’ve retired, sitting in the shade here <br />and feeling the winds shift, I must have been filled <br />with a child dread you could catch somebody’s dying <br />if you got too close. And you can’t be too sure.<br /><br />William De Witt Snodgrass<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sitting-outside/
