The wake of Ike

The seat came from the coast road, concrete
mounds still stuck firmly to its legs. laid
on its back it looked like some star struck cactus
dragged through hay and netted in brown mesh sludge
the sea donated. It must have been some ride
to have washed three miles inland and settle
against the roots of the 100 year oak, a grey coffin
at its side. If the seat could talk,
would it ask to be put back, or to be left
on the roadside snuggled tight to people's possessions?