The Couch

A couch.
A symbol the world recognizes,
And criticizes, easily.
Legs crossed carefully,
I let it pull me into its core.

As I open my heavy mouth to speak,
Each offering tumbles away without grace,
Or hesitation.

Dark roast becomes cold on the adjacent table,
Neighboring the Kleenex.

Most times I avoid using gaze,
She knows.
I know.
It is how I do.

I open the red door with white teeth,
The door that conceals spinning treasures,
A hard job to decode?
Maybe.

She reminds me of her past advice,
I remind her of my past.

The carpet needs to be cleaned.
Is that a cobweb in the corner?

This couch and I go way back.
It relishes the taste of my salty sadness.

I am reviewing the situation.
Checking off each item on my to-do list.
Did I mention,
The aggression?
Or when I forgot the guidance she bequeathed?

We both check the illuminated digital clock.
Eyes meet at once.
Embarrassed.

I sign the check and pat my old friend fondly.
Until next week.