Coarse

This sofa is a desert of clinical foam,

straight-edged and smelling of glue.

It doesn’t remember the shape of a home

or the weight of a person or two.

I went to the warehouse to touch the raw wool,

a bolt of the heavy and gray.

It felt like a blanket, a thick, steady pull

that keeps all the softness away.

I rolled a small pill of the thread in my hand

until it was matted and hard.

Just a knot of the fiber, a gritty demand

for the skin to stay always on guard.