On a gloomy, humble, rainy day,
I venture into the garage for batteries,
the garage that slurps in cars, burps out trucks,
and spies on the swimming asphalt outside.
With the electric barrels captured, I return to my dwelling.
But first, with the corner of my vision orbs,
my sight crawls on a path between the car and garage door,
just big enough for me to fit
and lands on the couch in the corner.
The one that;s yellow as mold, with stains
as gray as smoke and an aura as mysterious
as a collection of ghost stories.
Flashbacks return, like a loyal canine to its owner,
of childhood memories, early elementary school days.
A younger version of me jumping on a younger
version of a couch, one that shines like
honey, with the brightness of the sun, as if
asking to be sat upon.
But those days have escaped and perished, for almost
a decade now, leaving the couch gloomy, humble, and maybe crying.