Today’s prompt: “write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twelve-7/)
An Ugly, Worn, Scratchy Brown Couch
It’s an ugly brown couch.
That’s all.
Dull tweed,
threadbare, scratchy,
worn from
decades
of sitting,
napping.
Steeped in
second-hand smoke,
cushions deflated,
springs poking through.
Crumbs ground
into the creases.
The couch
where we laid
on our father’s
chest, as we
fell asleep
together.
As our parents
read to us,
teaching us
to love
stories, language,
the sound
of their voices,
the safety
of their arms.
The couch
where we spent
our sick days,
home from school,
drinking 7-Up
and eating
saltines,
entertained by
Highlights on the TV,
roly-poly fish heads
blurring into
hallucinatory dreams.
The couch
where our dog
curled up
next to us,
warm and trusting.
The couch
where we
flung ourselves down,
wailing, tears soaking
into the fabric,
after our first
heartbreak.
Where we laughed
with our friends,
jostling and poking,
rough-housing:
the centerpiece
of sleepovers.
The couch
where we—nervous,
skittish, embarrassed—
reached out to
hold the hand
of our first crush,
on our first date,
praying our parents
wouldn’t embarrass us,
dreaming of our
first kiss.
The couch
with the cushions
perfectly molded
to cradle necks,
to support spines,
dips and mounds
shaped to bodies
after years
of hard use.
Just like the couches
at our friends houses,
at our neighbors,
in dank basements,
in working class
living rooms
with aspirations
of better class.
It’s just an ugly, worn,
scratchy brown couch.
John the Librarian 