adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Couches, a poem

Couches

No couches await you, not along
the wall nor artfully angled
beneath the windows. They do not
beckon you to sit with me,

shoulder pressed to shoulder, this
or any other evening.
I have but these chairs,
cushion-filled, soft in color

and upholstery, but with
room for only one. So I
live and take my choice,
sit where I please. You may, too,

should you visit, near yet not
close, alone together,
in my rooms filled with chairs,
my many rooms that have no couches.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

Something I threw off this morning over my coffee and, therefor, very much a first draft sort of piece. It just struck me that I have no couches in my living room -- nor office nor art studio nor bedrooms -- on which I could sit with someone. Assuming someone ever came here. Admittedly, though, there is a big sofa in the music/recording room. And an old tattered one in the carport that the dog favors.

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