First, a word about the couch,
with its fiddlehead arms
and lichen upholstery:
It appeared to us years ago,
piecemeal by a dumpster,
and we scurried it like worker ants
up a narrow, dusty stairwell.
There is a godly satisfaction
in the clicking of wooden slats
and a cushion skating into place.
And you hope your guests won’t notice
that the thing can come apart.
Like a galleon in a glass bottle,
you hope it looks like magic.
Know that the Green Couch
has unburdened dozens,
drunken or in transit or in crisis,
of their wakeful encumbrances.
And know that it is jeweled with fluids –
soy sauce and Cotes du Rhone
and bloody noses and so much worse.
It is a second place to occupy
should I become unlovable,
which I often do after too
much time in too little space.
Like a bill into a wallet,
I slip into the tatty divot
that tired backs have bored.
Blades of midday sun, always
the smell of something burning.
This couch is a long, green silence
shared between people in love.
And you should hear the song it sings
when both our weights are lain upon it.
This poem was originally published in the Fall 2021 issue of Sequestrum.