a poem a day for a year #178

by Amy Turn Sharp


we have had so much sex on the couch
that it is broken
sagging
busted
bombed out
there is a hole in the middle
the springs poke through
I just found a ring I last remember wearing in Sedona, Arizona
over a a decade ago in the innards of the sofa

the children run and jump on it
they don't care
they smear peanut butter thumbs and dirty feet 
they fall to sleep on it like a bed
I try and stuff fluff the pillows and make it look decent
but it's worn
it's old now
we bought it when we first lived together
how strange to say that really was a long a time ago 
how I do remember you laying me down 
how I do recall when everything was new

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