Things Discarded While Still Useful

Someone tore into the couch

looking for change,

for loose bills,

for anything worth the dig,

anything worth getting their hands

in the stuffing, in the dark.

The cushions are gutted now,

the gray foam exposed like something

that was never meant to be seen,

the skeleton of comfort,

the proof that it was just foam and lies

about how soft it was,

about how long it would stay.

The springs are still good.

You can see it. They won't rust yet.

They'd hold weight still.

Someone could sit on this couch

in a room somewhere,

could use it for years more,

could sink into the worn spot

where the previous owner always sat,

where the shape was already made,

where someone had already broken it in.

But it's in the dumpster now.

It's trash.

It's the thing you pass on your way

to throw away your own used-up life,

your own things that still work

but nobody wants anymore,

your own small failures

wrapped in plastic bags.

The couch doesn't care.

It's hollow now.

It's past caring.

I walk past it every morning

and I don't look at the hole,

don't look at what someone took,

don't think about what it was,

or who sat in that worn spot,

or why they threw it out,

or when they decided it was time

to let it go.

I just walk past.

The couch stays there.

The hole stays open.