Once a kingdom of cushions,
a keeper of naps,
you held every secret,
every joke, every collapse.
Children bounced kingdoms
into your springs,
lovers sank quiet
into your seams.
Now you sit exiled,
your glory threadbare,
watching the woods breathe
their green, heavy air.
Soon the junkyard will claim you,
with rust and with stacks,
yet you’ll rattle with laughter
on the flatbed’s cracked tracks.
Because memory lingers
where fabric has torn—
a couch never dies,
it just gets reborn.
