The Footstool

It sits in the corner like a bright green bruise,

a bulky knot of acrylic yarn

that her basement cigarettes still cling to.

I said it was lovely. I said it was art.

But tonight I caught my shin on the corner

while reaching for the remote,

and the lie felt heavy as a winter coat

in the middle of a July heatwave.

I want to put it on the curb,

let the rain wash out the synthetic itch,

and finally stop saying thank you

for every crooked, neon stitch.