He isn’t in it, his chair,
the big brown one
that tilts forward
and reclines, but
the slip covers
on the arm rests
remember his hands—
they are worn
to a lighter shade
of brown. I imagine,
my own hands
could be a lighter shade
from all the times
he held them,
his thick fingers wrapped
around mine, his thumb
worrying a small circle
in my palm. May
I, too, be marked
by his touch—
may my palms
be threadbare.
reshaped by his love.