Thursday it was the sofa’s turn, today it’s the ottoman’s chance. We’re moving through a clockwise queue in the living room. The clock goes last.
Each night one piece of furniture in this dark house ventures out on the dimly lit sidewalks and peeks into the houses that still have people.
Every time one of us returns, it comes back with news of the neighborhood; the Skinners sit on chairs at the dinner table for supper, Mr. Klein’s asleep on the couch (his fat cheek pressed affectionately against a cushion), the Nelsons are watching TV sitting in its warm white glow. Each relays his news with a sad jealousy.
The picture frames don’t want to let go of the past, pulling their sharp corners tightly around the photos of those long gone loved-ones to wherever humans go when their utility is over.
The sun comes and leaves, comes and leaves, comes and leaves, through the pulled shades, the television has something to say, but never can find the words to say it.
Dust settles on the antique radio’s patina. “Wasn’t there dancing here once,” the lonely dial asks.
One day, some young couple will buy this house, then we’ll be tossed into a dumpster, waiting for our plastic-coated replacements to march by us, bidding us farewell, telling us they’ll never suffer our fate. They have to say that, because they know in their tufted hearts and upholstered faces, it isn’t true.
Each night one piece of furniture in this dark house ventures out on the dimly lit sidewalks and peeks into the houses that still have people.
Every time one of us returns, it comes back with news of the neighborhood; the Skinners sit on chairs at the dinner table for supper, Mr. Klein’s asleep on the couch (his fat cheek pressed affectionately against a cushion), the Nelsons are watching TV sitting in its warm white glow. Each relays his news with a sad jealousy.
The picture frames don’t want to let go of the past, pulling their sharp corners tightly around the photos of those long gone loved-ones to wherever humans go when their utility is over.
The sun comes and leaves, comes and leaves, comes and leaves, through the pulled shades, the television has something to say, but never can find the words to say it.
Dust settles on the antique radio’s patina. “Wasn’t there dancing here once,” the lonely dial asks.
One day, some young couple will buy this house, then we’ll be tossed into a dumpster, waiting for our plastic-coated replacements to march by us, bidding us farewell, telling us they’ll never suffer our fate. They have to say that, because they know in their tufted hearts and upholstered faces, it isn’t true.
Previous Version
Thursday it was the sofa’s turn, today it’s the ottoman’s chance. We’re moving through a clockwise queue in the living room. The clock goes last.
Each night one piece of furniture in this dark house ventures out on the dimly lit sidewalks and peeks into the houses that still have people.
Every time one of us returns, it comes back with news of the neighborhood; the Skinners at supper, Mr. Klein’s asleep on the couch, the Nelsons are watching TV. Each relays his news with a sad jealousy.
The picture frames don’t want to let go of the past, pulling their sharp corners tightly around the photos of those long gone to wherever humans go when their utility is over.
The sun comes and leaves, comes and leaves, comes and leaves, through the pulled shades, the television has something to say, but can never does.
Dust settles on the varnished floors. “Wasn’t there dancing here once,” the lonely boards ask.
One day, some young couple will buy this house, then we’ll be tossed into a dumpster, waiting for our plastic-coated replacements to march by us, bidding us farewell, telling us they’ll never suffer our fate. They have to say that, because they know in their tufted hearts and upholstered faces, it isn’t true.
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