The Ugly Yellow Chair

There lies an ugly yellow chair in Broomall. It is best swept under the rug like my emotions, faith, and, feelings. My uncle sits on it from time from time and he ponders if I am still righteous. It belonged to his mother who’s departed. Her name was as beautiful as she was. The chair much like me is partially protected from the storm of emotions. It’s on a porch where none remembers it. I know how that chair feels. I am lonely too, my faith is departed me, and I much like the chair feel forgotten.