Father's Throne

If I remember rightly
there was already a place for it
before it had even arrived,
a slim alcove, two bookshelves above
with a partial view of the garden.
Pristine, the colour was conker brown
but with age, as conkers do
it dulled to a sombre nut dark
although the back, kept out of the light
retained a rich gloss.

On each side, detectives
could have easily discovered fingerprints
his persistent drumming
tambourine fashion
Sanders of the River he’d say
as he waited on a cup of builders
it was a drum chair after all.
The clumsy heel scuffs on the front edge
and fag end scorches on the right-hand arm
walrus battle scars he’d chuckle
earning him regular sharp rebukes from mum

He used to tease us
and say the chair had thieving fingers
invisible ectoplasm
that stole loose change, and
stored it amongst the crumbs and fluff
down the back, knowing we would
go polching for it greedily when he was out.

Long after,
occasionally, in a pub
we’d see a similar chair
and imagine him squeezed in it
hand hovering like a dragonfly
over a half-drunk pint
and if I tried it for size
memories would belch out
from the under-stuffed cushions
and I'd drum out
Sanders of the River
whilst quietly humming to myself.

© Graham Sherwood 2017