there is a red couch on the curb 

hunched over, tattered cardboard sign saying 

“free” the letters faded by the rain

and i see it, this wash-out couch

and wonder what it’s life was like 

before the life bled out of it 

like the letters on the sign that proclaims its lack of worth 

i can see it in its youth, lean and glamorous, the red fabric of cushions glistening like wine

as it owned the room, as people 

adorned like so much jewelry 

but then 

it faded, its arms sagged, heavy with the weight of its life 

and “beautiful” became a word 

that tasted of champagne and regret

it is now the final resting place 

of the tears you cried after they walked out of your life 

and the crumbs of the crackers you ate the night you were too exhausted to make anything else 

and the words you mumbled into its fabric, secrets only the faded red cushions know 

it is more tomb than furniture 

a living ghost 

and so an exorcism was performed, it was banished 

and now it sits here 

a monument to mundanity 

and, like the pyramids of old 

it will soon return to the dust