BB Grey–musings

There’s this L-shaped couch—
sleeps four if you’ve run out of beds
and won’t surrender to the floor.

The seller called it gold.
I see beige.
It belonged to someone with money—
new tech, or maybe just old.

It was meant for the curb last Friday,
but saved three days later.

Now I sit and wonder
what asses have rested here,
what secrets these pillows might keep
if they could speak.

“It’s made of feathers!”
was the selling point—
as if couches,
even L-shaped ones,
could fly.

Dumbo believed.
I suppose I can, too.

But feathers never stay put.
They poke through
at the worst times.
If they were down,
they’d be too small to fight their way out.
But these are full-grown,
stubborn,
demanding release.

They litter the surface,
then drift to the floor,
waiting for a breeze
to carry them toward the door.
Mostly, they just stay—
white against dark brown wood,
trees and birds,
nesting.

It’s a couch, L-shaped,
quilled in straws
that once drank feathers
meant for flight.
Now they lie dead on the floor,
ready for trash day,
where crows laugh in black hoods
at white down
that no longer keeps the gold out.