Sofa Sometimes I sit, slender figure sprawled on my old leather couch. Hide tougher than an old widower’s skin, and just as weathered as his soul. If this settee had eyes, I’m sure they’d look like my father’s. They’re seasoned with the pains of life, pepper bitter, with a sprinkle of sea salt. A sweet sorrow mixed with a dash of darkness. The bristles from the sandpaper seat like the scratch of his stubble. I close the windows to my heart, trying to remember the once vivid acrylics of his visage, now playing on a black and white reel. The sand streaming down scratched glass, pitter pattering splatters erasing even the monochrome scale. My mother put that sofa out on the curb a rainy Saturday. His frumpy frame greying, rain drawing tears down his hunched back, worn to a thread by my family’s every whim and wonder. Yet unthanked and unthought-of, abandoned for naught.