Crouching low against the wall,
between the bedroom and the hall,
so proud of its position,
(rarely in mint condition)
self-confidently claims:
I have a multitude of names!
Whether I’m an ottoman,
or indeed a plain divan,
chesterfield or davenport,
confident of your import,
sofa, day-bed or settee,
comfort is a guarantee.
Silent witness of our life,
everyday domestic strife,
watching as drama unfolds,
first fumbles of fourteen-year-olds,
heavy petting, no restraint,
reminders of Portnoy's Complaint.
Between the cushions evidence,
of alcohol and late-night snacks,
chewing gum and twenty cents,
ballpoint pens and fast food packs,
cookie crumbs and sticky candy,
a vacuum cleaner comes in handy.
Another day, another twist
I visit my psychiatrist,
and as I lie on his chaise longue,
discovering where life went wrong,
I yearn to be on my settee,
watching sport on the TV.