Monday, November 23, 2009

The Couch.

The couch is on stilts. I am not comfortable with it.
It sits in the middle of the living room,
Glares at me. A large eye. My mother sits on the couch.
She knits her afghan. The blanket on my bed smells
Like moth balls.

My mother is here. She pokes random objects. She dreams
Of nothings that blink on and off. Christmas music
Spews from a loud speaker in the bedroom. Snow falls
From the sky. We’re nothing, you and I.

My father said he got the couch from a garage sale three years
He said he didn’t like it at first. He said it made him think of
His banged-up knee he got in high school on the varsity football
The blanket has not been washed.

It is not Sunday. My father did his washing on Sunday.
I call him every Friday afternoon, and ask if he remembers to do
The washing.

The third time I called him, he hung up on me and didn’t invite me
To his wedding.

A year passed by. We sold the couch to a couple in Chicago,
Who were giving their daughter a new puppy for her birthday.
This is the story of a couch. The couch is on stilts.
I am not comfortable with it.

No comments: