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