It only happens on stormy days,
do not ask of me why, I do not know.
Unknown neighbours have matter to throw
out where it does not belong.

The garbage bins are three hundred
metres away, yet paraphernalia is ridded
beneath the arcade, in front of my window,
at the corner of the opposite block.

An old bamboo rocking chair left
astray, in the rain to drown as I gaze,
imagining what it would look like if only
someone loved and coated it again.

I ran downstairs uncaring of the drops
streaming along my spine, shivers as I
retrieve the creaky relict, giving it shelter
in my humble and humbled abode.

It is now fern green and rocks in silence
proudly on my terrace and under the porch.

Two weeks later, one more storm, another
castaway cobalt blue, worn-out leather
of a stranded armchair, enticing me to engage
in a rescue mission, anew.

Lightning and thunders inhibiting intentions,
I wait and distract only to get to it later,

It was gone.