Couch
Well, you don’t want it and I can’t keep the thing.
In May, I’m in my own studio and I’m afraid
it will eat up all the square feet. Either way,
we ask ourselves, is it worth the four flights?
I’m usually up for a fight but I can’t do it alone
and it feels unfair to ask. It is a beauty though—
sage green, overlaid plaid and leaves, legs that’ll hold
anything. It was basically free and still, we stare
each other down over the seat and decide
that’s exactly what we deserve to be. It hurts
to be so carefree when we carry it downstairs.
We’ve got it upside down dragging through dust,
grime, dog hair. We get it wedged at one point
in a tight corner, both our bodies pressed
against the wall by the cushion. You keep going
even when I say stop, you’re scraping away the paint.
We make it outside and I pretend that’s it, that the dumpster isn’t
waiting. I wait for you to pick up your end first so I know
we’re really doing this. Once it’s done, tossed on top
of everything else we’ve gotten rid of, we sit in our separate
cars for a minute. I see you in my rearview looking at it, all
that blue broken up by green. As your low beams leave,
I catch myself trying to use that last bit of light, still, to see.
