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monument to mundanity MAG
there is a red couch on the curb
hunched over, tattered cardboard sign saying
“free” the letters faded by the rain
and i see it, this wash-out couch
and wonder what it’s life was like
before the life bled out of it
like the letters on the sign that proclaims its lack of worth
i can see it in its youth, lean and glamorous, the red fabric of cushions glistening like wine
as it owned the room, as people
adorned like so much jewelry
but then
it faded, its arms sagged, heavy with the weight of its life
and “beautiful” became a word
that tasted of champagne and regret
it is now the final resting place
of the tears you cried after they walked out of your life
and the crumbs of the crackers you ate the night you were too exhausted to make anything else
and the words you mumbled into its fabric, secrets only the faded red cushions know
it is more tomb than furniture
a living ghost
and so an exorcism was performed, it was banished
and now it sits here
a monument to mundanity
and, like the pyramids of old
it will soon return to the dust
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This article has 2 comments.
And here we have me waxing poetic about a couch. This poem came about after seeing a couch by the side of the road. I started imagining the memories it carried — and eventually came to the conclusion that nothing is as mundane as it seems.