I couch words carefully
since going futon- free,
and so far,
it’s a workable arrangement…
putting only those on the table
I can afford to misplace
–and look for frantically
when they escape me—
I don’t miss the stuffing…
padded, and made of throats
I don’t miss the Nook…
preferring hardcopy
I don’t miss having trouble
rising,
and I don’t miss the
burlap
sham
that encased it…
worn out sham
the frame is the only real part of it
I miss…
the brighter weave where it once rested,
a reminder.
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