Aging

The small plastic Adirondack chair
has been on the porch long enough
to turn brittle and flaky
in the sun. A cloudy sheen
of plastic dandruff glazes
all of its sunward surfaces.
If you sit in it, it cracks.
It's a ghost of a chair.
One day it will simply collapse.
Or, I'll forget. I'll see it
facing the bird infested tree
across the street, jutting
halfway out of the roof's shadow.
I'll take my cup of tea out
onto the porch and sit.
Among the dry flakes
of memories in my brain that have
sloughed off and gathered
at the base of my skull,
will be the piece about the chair's
untenable state, so when I land,
the chair, the ash can of my skull,
and the brittle bag of my body
will all bust into the air like confetti.