The couch went out,
not because we abandoned it,
but it was broken,
showing its age,
an embarrassment
among the new and tidy.
Never mind that we slept,
argued, ate and caroused on it.
That Jackie leaned over its back
to see ladybugs,
that coffee blended in its brownness.
That it had the softness and love
of old arms,
their tolerance and forgiveness.
That it was there to be used
and shoved, and wiped up,
and came back to cuddle us,
to quiet our fears,
to invite us to stretch out
and talk,
and give us the wisdom of its silence.
How many years did it live with us?
Could we not put it in some room,
the cellar,
find some use?
And we knew it was not possible.
I pleaded its case
and put it on the porch,
cleaned it,
stroked it,
told it,
I loved it,
I wanted it to go to some home
where it could
invite travelers to rest,
and tell them of its family
whose memory is happiness,
looking for us to return.