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.