The red chair sits at the table
the black one is dining there too
their repast is of pencils and paper
the odd flower
the used glass
a *****

they seem to converse
I can't hear it
their animated chatter
so low

swallowed by night
its dark shutters
as the sun sets
and dims down the light

It is evening
they'll be there tomorrow
their banter
the rolling of wheels
in time with the squeak of the door
but when we're gone
they'll be there no more