Corner placed,
covered arms curved out to hold,
their wooden hands protrude,
curl, stretch and rest,
from sea green damask clothes,
old legs slightly bend,
claw to the rug below,
waiting,
making room for two
if one is small,
to snuggle in the other’s lap.
Worn in spots,
with traces in its threads
of all the times it held them,
a father .
and a son now grown,
who gazes down upon it,
to imagine he’s still little,
standing looking up,
his father there again,
arms held out to hold.