I love my sofa so much I wrote a poem about it.
Arranged around the room like crumbling coffins
the sofa sits in pieces, time is mine
to fit her fine legs on and fluff her cushions
and deify her comfort in a rhyme.
I’m sure you’ve guessed by now “this is a sonnet”
though I’m oft told that rhyme is fairly cheap…
shit, Milton went so far to call it “trivial”…
my sofa and I find it tongue in cheek.
She took three hours just to put together
but every time I’ve sat down on her since
I tell her we can't stay like this forever
she pines and whines and misses my imprints.
Take heed, if you, like me, have your own three piece
salvation is not wedged between the seats.