It sat idle in the corner
Where its many caverns hosted the crumbs
Of burnt toast and brown copper coins;
It was his nest and,
Like the cuckoo, he returned day after day,
Year after year;
And it smelled of him- like ginger ale and oil,
Both of which he claimed could fix even the stiffest of joints
Yet he could hardly move after more than a glass;
The fabric's corners, rough and green, had torn in places,
Sticky and unpleasant to the untrained mind
But to him,
It was perfect.

After decades of sitting,
He left his dent
In the chair
And people felt uncomfortable
Even assuming his spot
For no one could compare to such a gentleman;
So we remembered
As it sat idle in the corner
Where its many caverns hosted the crumbs
Of burnt toast and brown copper coins
And the memory of what once was
An Extraordinary Man.