The red of the leather, so plump at first
was anger at my loss of you.
A sofa bought on a whim and no prayer
landed in a space so skewed.
Seven years on, the rage has worn out,
as has the leather so sad.
What was once a feisty young thing
has withered to become an old hag.
No one wants her, she’s past her time,
that rage has burnt itself out.
All that’s left is the bits of her
that litter the vacuum’s tight butt.