His father's chair

He sat in his father's chair legs too short to reach the floor
His feet were bare dangling there too small for the shoes papa wore
Knees scuffed like the finish on the wood, wounds that would heal with scars
He's not yet as tough as the oak seat that stood with its back made of bars
A finished throne that one day he would own when hairs grew on his chin
For now alone he sat like stone his father's scratches etched in sin