Oh, the couch

Long, grey, accent pillows

The accent being yellow, not British or Southern or Spanish

Though if any it would likely be Australian for it is, in fact, down under

What have you to say to me ye olde couch?

For you have seen an unprecedented amount of my backside in these unprecedented times

Sitting, laying, half sitting-laying, beached whaling

What secrets do you hold in your crevices I wonder?

Pens long forgotten, dried brownie crumbs, procreating dust bunnies

Nuggets of conversations had on you

Do you talk about me when I’m not around?

Exchange war stories with the armchair, battles with my butt

Or should I say glutes, you refined young fellow

Yet you came from IKEA, not Restoration Hardware

No offense, I love you all the same

Perhaps I’ve taken for granted all the support you’ve given

Without a peep, forgetting the occasional squeak

I see you have an inch of seam undone

A peek into your soul

I imagine it’s white, light, bright despite all it must endure

So, what is it you would say to me, I’m asking you to speak

We are together more than ever and have not truly spoken

Maybe you know all there is to know about me who sits upon you daily

Push back, you glorified cushion, or else I’ll sink deeper

What was that you said just now, did I hear a stifled something?

Oh, sorry, I hadn’t realized where I was sitting

Here, I’ll move my seat

Why yes, I do like potatoes

What does that have to do with anything?