Lazy Boy

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.