Like a red patterned beacon,
she called to me from the roadside.
It took me three days to answer her siren,
but there she stood waiting,
a hopeful child.
She was ancient, sagging,
yet somehow magical
in her ruby splendor.
The thrift store, eager to depart with
the perceived monstrosity,
sold her to me for twenty-five dollars.
She sang to me all the way home
in an aria only our two hearts knew.
I knew I loved her already.
She fit perfectly in the small apartment
I moved into after the cancer.
She didn’t care that I had been sick,
she didn’t care that dogs
would sleep on her when I wasn’t home.
She, in her rubricated glory, was as deep as love,
requiring two layers of pillows to sit
and have your feet upon the floor.
She was not a sitting couch.
She was a sleeping couch,
a curling up couch, a loving couch,
a healing couch
in vermillion velvet damask.
To know her magic was to sleep,
cocooned in between the rolled arms
and padded back of this 1920’s gal.
She was a beauty in my eyes,
casting her enchantments upon
anyone who dared to lay
upon her downy cushions.
2015 copyright by Katie Pifer, available at http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com