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new poem: an outsider’s account of the great sofa war.

 

 

 

I. there’s harried excitement like wobbling guitar strings
as he claws apart their couch. huge chunks of cheap
foam, digging digging, and as they come off, out the
window they go.

 

they’re leaving town, running back home after half a
year, harried excitement.

 

II. the life of a good couch is measured in stains and
funny smells. the number of times your drunk friends
have accidentally vomited, spilled cheap chinese
food, stale pub pack beer, the rank stink of cat urine.

 

on this particular couch: pet hair, leftover optimism,
cigarette burns (camel and l&m), schlitz, bodily
fluids, dog slobber, hot sauce, and perhaps the
occasional echo of six months of YELLING.

 

III. their dog runs around frantically as the couch
dissolves. his girl sits mutely in the corner, she
hasn’t packed. she won’t pack. their couch goes
out the window, falls into great foamy piles on the
sidewalk below.

 

IV. she sings like a bird, they are a dichotomy.
neurotic and level-headed, composed and
completely disassembled. their couch falls in
great piles below.

 

this is the last day of yelling the foam pieces
will absorb. the dog feels the tension,
pees everywhere.

 

their couch goes out the window.

 

 

author’s note: a re-telling of the story of two acquaintances parting ways in a bit of a tizzy, bang bang.