the recliner out front

the chair appears one
morning, out near the hydrant
where the morning trash
goes for pick up.
it has been secretly dragged
out of someone's house
in the dark.
it's mauve and soft,
a recliner of some sort
with cup holders
and a tray that swings
to and fro.
the pressed shape
of a large body is still
imbedded in the seat
and back. you can see where
an elbow bent and leaned,
changing channels
perhaps.
there are crumbs and spills
staining
the faded fabric.
it's mechanical arm
is broken, the lever and buttons
unwired, sticking out
like horse hairs.
the chair is there for a week.
everyone sees it, but what is
there to do. it goes
unclaimed, too large
to toss in the back of
a truck.
too awkward to be carried
or disposed of.
then one day, it's gone.