Love this poem Angie… absolutely LOVE it.
Our own, well-loved old furniture shows evidence of the many who have gone before us. Chairs creak and sigh and flex whenever we occupy them, rocking gently on feet worn uneven from the damp flagstones of the past. The Bergere sofa cracks like a pistol shot as we settle into it. (And no, the new upholstery and the restoration of its joints have neither taken from its character nor silenced its protests.) One chair leg is worn thin from clawing, the legacy of a long-dead cat. Your poem, Angie, magnificently captures all of this, only more succinctly and poetically.