The Private Slouch

The sofa gave up its ghost years ago.

The springs are just a suggestion now,

poking into the meat of my thigh

while I lean into the blue light of the screen.

I saw myself in the glass when the power flickered—

a bent thing, a spine like a rusted hinge.

When I finally stand, my heel leaves a hole

in the cheap polyester, a temporary grave

where a better version of me might have sat.