The Couch In Ben's Bachelor Pad by John Grey

Coins are nothing.

Nor are donut crumbs.

Ben says he lost a ten dollar note

there once, a tiny hand

reaching up between the cushions,

snatching it from his pocket,

then slipping away into the sofa frame.

Another time, it stole

an entire slice of cake.

Ben adds that when he hasn't seen

someone for a long time

that's the first place he looks.

Every one of those soft blue pillows

is dug up like a grave

and he fully expects to find a body.

"Gotta go looking

while the trail is fresh,"

is his explanation.

If there was just a way

of getting beyond just feeling and seeing,

surely he'd find Ruth's underwear,

Susan's lipstick, Julia's letter,

Anna's ring, maybe even

what Amy said under her breath.

Maybe there should be a warning sign,

clearly outlining the risks

of sitting on that couch.

But then he remembers.

He's the warning sign.

John Grey is an Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Connecticut Review, Kestrel and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Alimentum and the Great American Poetry Show.

This Zine Will Change Your Life previously published Oil Derricks in the Gulf by John Grey. Check it out.

Photograph by Adam Lawrence.

Street art by Kosbe.

The Ontario-based duo Memoryhouse recently released a collection of bedroom recordings for free. For real.