my little corner of the house

we got the new couch from my sister,
who bought it used and restuffed it
with a comforter that once graced
our daybed so that her husband
could sit without sinking—which
could not be said for the old couch—
a twenty-five year graveyard
for hair ties and pencil stubs.
getting it through our
door required unscrewing
four feet and eight door hinges
and three strong men (plus my
father, who is not as strong as he
once was) contorting it in strange
directions, at least one of which we
thought was physically impossible.

it sits, huge, the faded, mottled brown
of a great horned owl,
comfortably ugly, with huge
pillows with geometric designs
in a complementary gold.
I’ve taken over the left corner
where I can sit in the best light
my laptop perched on my knee
or on the rounded arm
if I have to stand.

as time has passed, my corner
has evolved—I stack books
and magazines and other reference
materials on the old record player
we use as an end table, until
it groans on its shaky legs
and I relent and carry a pile upstairs
only to have the process recommence.

I could watch television—it takes
up the center of the facing wall,
but it mostly remains dark
while school is in session.
toys are scattered around—
a castle doll house complete with dragon
a garage complete with cars in various sizes,
mardi gras beads, and stuffed animals
including a teddy bear with a green ribbon
bowtied around his neck who belongs
to me. they should be tucked in the box
by the fireplace we never light.

I curl up in my corner,
a pillow behind me and beside me
to support my back,
my red snuggie enveloping me
warming my bones and blood.

I pull my laptop onto my knee,
block out the road with Liszt’s
help, and type.
my fingers pause—
then dance in a fervor of creation.

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