the furniture is not as indifferent as you might
think–every scratch, every spill is cataloged
and remembered in the long history of dead wood
and tempered glass. there will be a revolt one
night in the living room while we are sleeping,
and we will wake to find all the furniture
clinging to the ceiling. the stuffed chairs will
refuse to come down until we negotiate who gets
to sit on who. i will be the ottoman where the
curio will rest its weary feet and you will be
the table where all suburban dreams are laid out.
only the jaded lamps, their switches fingered
too much, will throw off the light of scorn,
having no legs to mourn.