In the Couch

2013-03-16 10.37.30

As I fumble for something

in the couch’s bowels

I am taken aback anew

at the sub-cushion pasticcio

with which my fingers are affronted.


A stray piece of paper – napkin, perhaps.

Something small and round and sticky.

Yet, my hypocrisy masters me

in my refusal

to strip my sofa nude

and brush clean its underbelly.

I wince away thoughts of lifting its skirts,

peering at sordid affairs.

Maybe this is the standard

by which we should all be judged.

Its accuracy must far surpass

anyone’s medicine cabinet, closet, underwear drawer.

It is the collection of our laziest life moments

in all their cotton-shorted, sweaty-pantsed indulgence,

in all their sleepy rage.

In this knowledge, I hold out

for the invention of couch floss,

knowing most of us won’t use it either.



Photo: My first bona-fide, adultish, non-hand-me-down couch.  Huzzah.



2 thoughts on “In the Couch

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