The Couch, in response to "The Searchers".

It was the polyester hide-a-bed that meant death.
Pilled up fabric a rusted pumpkin orange,
my father sealed his eyes shut,

slept on through afternoon sun.
The light made patterns on the bedspread
across the lump of a languid body who only knew one thing:

hibernating with the bear
hanging with the jailbird
electrocuted by his God and father,

the door left a crack open to let out the stale air
the wooden floorboards creaked under our feet
as we tiptoed our way around expansive empty rooms.