Beach Chair

Beach Chair                  

How long had the humble beach-chair

Sat on the deserted strip of soft white sand,

With a forlorn blue towel hanging off its remaining arm?

Was there a story of love and loss

Emanating from the dissolute beach-chair,

Facing the Pacific with no claimant in sight?

Had a despondent lass,

Seeing no sliver of hope,

Chosen to mark her final moments

Before committing herself to the ocean?

What of the old man who

Heeded the need for speed

And risked his chair

To attend to a bladder’s demand?   

Surely last night’s drunkard

Was capable of worse stupidity

Than leaving his poor, weathered, over-used

And under-appreciated chair overnight.

I was left with three choices:

The chair looks serviceable, and I might lay claim;

I can stay for hours to ascertain true ownership;

Or walk away and leave resolution to another.