In Lieu of a Porch Swing
a futon sits, motionless, covered
in white silk.
It serves many purposes:
a place to sit for the bone-weary
a place to read, if that's your thing
a place to draw the imaginary line
where you fold the porch in half
Before the futon is a makeshift
coffee table, also white.
On top are four evenly spaced candles
orbiting an indigo vase--perfect
for an afternoon seance.
And if the sun's rays could creep up
the concrete right now, that futon
would shine like God;
I would be here, at my desk, devouring
a banana in the middle of rapture.
But the sun's reach is limited,
so the cutesy white furniture
fades to gray in abrupt shadows;
I would still be here, staring at a veiny
banana peel at the cusp of tribulation.
In lieu of a porch swing,
a futon
(let's sit
and watch
the apocalypse).
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