The Sleeping Couch

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



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