On my walk to dance class
because the Lazyboy was facing me
I stopped next to a busy street
in a white stone driveway.
Beside a truck, it sat without
its carpet, table, lamp or TV,
head and armrests discolored
from unwashed hair and greasy fingers.
All the spasms of light it’d absorbed-
sitcoms, commercials, late night movies
cast across sky blue fabric in morning,
navy in midday, wee hours grey.
I walked behind it, looked out at the street.
What would we be watching,
this Lazyboy and I? Voyeurs of what?
White, black, red cars blurred past.
Sunrays reflected off windshields in fits.
I sat. I rocked. I swiveled. I reached deep
into its crevice and retrieved the remote.
I pulled the lever.
first published in Hartskill Review: A Journal of Contemporary Poetry and Poetics. Vol. 2, Issue 1. Ed. Joshua Hjalmer Lind. Eau Claire: ThrewLine Books, 2015. 5. Print.