down the lane the summer homes all yawn,
open & airing out,
depositing mothballs, musty deck chairs/on the lawn

strolling i see all last year's forgotten furniture
waiting
on the roadside, dust covered.
here a couch groans out to me:
"such a life!
reeking of mildew,
springs worn from children jumping on the weekends
--and the old man couldn't stop them.
too busy slamming drinks on the porch!"

i very nearly weep,
"poor tired old thing!"
for it is a hard ride to be a couch.