My Godmother’s Chair—Exercize in Iambic Pentameter

Third Draft

The quiet drifts of fusty smoke diffuse--
And moldy books still linger in my nose.
Its regal back lay pressed against the wall;
Light velveteen of olive green worn dull
Behind the many heads, rear-ends, and limbs
Who sat in meditation. Stately trims
Grown sparse and coarse, revealing inner fluff
And battered wooden bone. Alas, my caliph.
While I sat and swung my chubby legs,
And travelled swift to bygone royal lands,
Her eyes were moist and red. Beneath her smile
Suspicious, zealous, deeply misconstrued:
A vibrant mess of love and misplaced scorn.
In retrospect I see her buried pain--

The only remnant of her grief fraught hours
The tattered hollow in an ancient seat.