about an interior item

a "lightly used" futon was given to me

by thoughtful relations when I moved into my apartment.

it's a house-warming item.

there are no attached tags describing how to clean it,

or warnings against smoking in close proximity,

or cautions regarding the possibility of smothering the kids.

how to fold it for one purpose and unfold it for something else,

was left to my mechanical knowhow.

its manufacturer is unknown, but for the time being,

small household items can be placed on it when

there’s nowhere else to put them, making the futon

its own little form of purgatory.

it’s uncomfortable in every way,–– while sitting on it,

or sleeping in it, or simply considering it as part of

the physical nature of things, and in times of extreme drowsiness,

one could reimagine it as a planter, but to do that you'd have to be

certifiably crazy, or a non-compromising adherent of Man Ray.

the fabric of the thing seems durable in the hyper durable category

as it will not degrade within a typical human lifetime, and in keeping,

the fabric's color is an average beige setting it apart from the more intense

values in beige,–– and it’s heavy. and it looks heavy–– and apart from myself,

poets will not be stimulated simply by the looks of it, and in the cosmic realm,

God will neither damn the thing nor rejoice over its presence,

in a rare act of neutrality.

–– regardless, I've chosen to place the futon's backside flush against

the south-standing wall to assist in bearing the load, and as it sits,

it doesn’t face the landscape, the sunset, or much else for that matter,

but the good news is, I've been convinced that nobody's died on it.