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.
