Imprisoned by couch cushions

Stockholm Syndrome

finally sets in.

 

Straining front porch wicker-work,

I interpret the mundane.

 

Sunk in love seat leather,

I weigh revision and reversion.

 

The furniture eats me alive.

Up all night in upholstery,

 

I transcribe the dust-mummified

moth that died.

 

Leaned back in plastic Adirondack,

I cock-fight present progressives

and perfects.

 

Time never seems on my side.

 

The furniture is going to kill me.

My phone has buried me already.

 

Only when I lay in bed

burrowed in the feathers

of your goose-pimpled skin

do I accept my death, knowing

I end where you begin.