first couches held the room
my brother screaming
each time his hip
bashed a corner
yelling at the object
as if human.
now tables abound.
more surfaces than one knows
what to do with.
fill them up
or wipe them clean?
or shorn?
funny how furniture comes
and goes
chatting all the while.
i want to hug that tip top table
and kick
the couch.
a photograph
or drawing
must suffice
for one day the piece
will be gone.
gone from my life
and on to
the history continuing,
the hips bruising,                                                                                                      the wood polished                                                                                                      for someone                                                                                                            else.