Some Friday night, it might be worth a try:
after a glass or two of French, a page
or more of some ambitious book,
let go into the couch. When you wake up,
lights on, at 3 am, not sure just where,
or who you are, assume you’ve died, a ghost,
for the first time, returning to your house.
In your confusion, look around, and breathe
the ether of this place. You lived here once,
or sort of, passing through, hopped up to win
and knock the bastards for a loop. But now
you’re dead and there’s no rush. So give the couch
a bounce or two, discovering again
how cunningly it’s made for reading, naps,
and listening to Bach. And say it, “couch,”
with the full vigor of your new-found voice.
Stand up, letting your feet sink in the rug,
and say it, “rug.” There’s the whole room to go,
“piano,” “roses,” “coffee table,” “mug,”
your voice becoming stronger, almost as if
you were alive, almost as if you loved
these things, needed to greet them all by name.
Now what about your missing ones, the ones
who used to live upstairs, or out of state?
Call out to them. Maybe you’ll wake them too.
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