By Mike Everley
Taking the Stanley Knife to the old chair
it feels strange not to cut skin
to feel blood ooze from the wound.
But that was then. This is now.
The foam padding retains your shape.
Slashing frenzied into it
till the wooden frame is free
of every vestige
of where you sat.
Even the flowery fabric
lying discarded at my feet
retains your smell.
Binning it and returning to the task
with metal gun in hand
stapling new foam, devoid of shape,
then brass tacks hammered in
to hold the bold embroided
material in place.
Standing back surveying my work.
A new chair lacking memories
stands in the same old space
waiting to be filled.
But locked inside my mind
the past remains
beyond the knife or gun.
Less easy to reach.
Almost beyond repair.