your big chair

your neighbor
likes to borrow things.
a cup of olive oil
for instance,
sugar, eggs,
two slices of bread,
once.
she needed a garden hoe
one spring day,
but you never saw
the flowers,
or the hoe in return.
as she packs
to leave, move on
to another city
you see the movers
carrying out the things
you've lent to her.
you see the pictures
you've set out on
the curb for trash,
a coat you once wore.
books, magazines you've
tossed.
a big chair with a rip
that she
sealed with duct
tape.
you hear her telling
the movers
to be careful, not
to drop it. you loved
that chair and feel
strangely happy
that it's found
a new home.