Who could find meaning in a metal chair?  
Doppelganged in a room, over-supplied. 
Scratches and ink on the underside.  
Made sacred by a Pheasant, shy and fair 
Who once in the day, bestows herself there  
Eagerly casual, I sit aside,  
As that lowly old chair, inhales her light.  
She’s welcoming though she easily scares.  
It cannot be known, how long I do wait  
To use leisurely questions as desperate bait.  
In chair she sits, for as long as she’ll stay  
Then distracted or tired, she wanders away  
But the chair draws her back, never long, never late.