How I Struggled to Write a Couch Poem - Helping Bill Hess - Poem: The Mail-Order Couch

Before I regale you with my couch poem, let's commiserate about the awful heat! 

"80 degrees" read my outdoor thermometer, which is thumbtacked to a tree stump in the frontyard, as I tied my new and comfy Vasque sneakers and headed out the door.

It's not so bad, I thought, as I headed down the hill. Rounding the corner of Cowbell, I sought out the shady parts, which were plentiful, and the going was easy.

Until, that is, I rounded the corner at Greyhorse - "that's all one word," I say to new visitors - and then the heat hit me so fast I thot I would pass out right there on the street.

In fact, I saw myself falling on my hands and knees. Proof perhaps of a parallel universe?

I could not breathe right. Keep on walking, I told myself, one foot in front of the other. I stepped into the shade and caught my breath.

What is happening to me?

I could always stop at Carol's house, the gray one, and ask them to drive me home. I knew I wouldn't. I knew I would make it the entire way, which I did.

Full stop, new paragraph.

The prob with the couch poem is that I bot two couches, but I'm not skillful enuf to poetate about one couch, let alone two.

I bought the couch from Gamburg's in Hatboro, PA and called my saleswoman Amy Kraemer. What kind of wood did they use to make the legs, I asked.

She got in touch with Mastercraft Furniture - oops Craftmaster Furniture - in Hiddenite, NC - to find me the answer.

Also she answered my question on how best to clean the occasional spot. I've already forgotten what she said but I think it was:  Hose it down with a fire hose.

Our man in Alaska, Bill Hess, underwent a colonectomy today for pre-cancerous tumors. I mailed him a generous check to help pay for the operation.

Writes Bill on his blog:

Dr. O'Malley's Office had already informed me his bill would be just under $10,000. Now I was informed the hospital bill would be $60,000 - BUT - they had a real special deal for uninsured people like myself. All I needed to do was pay just $20,000 before I went into surgery and they would knock the rest off.

I told them they might as well ask me for $2 million. Add in the bills for Dr. Sahagun and Providence and the total comes to about $80,000. It wouldn't surprise me at all if it grows from here.

Joe Biden just emailed me wanting a donation:

Yesterday I shared an emotional moment with Barack in the Oval Office after he learned health reform had been upheld.

Barack Obama is a man who refused to give up. No matter how politically unpopular it was, he knew it was the right thing to do.

Good marketing, fundwriters! Love the use of the term Barack. I also adore the font, whose name I do not know. But guess what? Altho I want Barack to win, I ain't giving him a cent.

His healthcare won't go into effect soon enuf to help my pen-pal Bill Hess. Our darling Barack made too many concessions to the health insurance companies. Nice guys finish last.

THE MAIL-ORDER COUCH

Jose carried you over the threshold

the companion of my latter days

I was finished with the has-beens

couches bought at thrift stores
other people’s sweat and cigarettes

You are newly born

the stork wrapped you in cellophane

a couch for eternity.

In the foothills of North Carolina

they dressed you in your wedding gown

red as raspberries glistening in a pie

and slipped on your high-heel pumps

a blend of alderwood and birch

You’ve settled down

far from the clang of manly hammers

the swoosh of bouncy soy-product

stuffed into your cushioned hips and breasts

Tired, I lay down to nap

sixty-six years of exhaustion

visions flooding the forest of my mind:

Why have I returned to foggy San Francisco?

or the sweltering heat of Houston

where I reigned five years
as a failed wife?

Never an answer

only sweet comfort

in your arms

we rejoice in

the manic depression I sloughed off

the new kidney pulsing invisible

and your silent attentiveness

intuitive as an oak.

Here, let us get up and greet the dawn

Nearing eighty, I am nearly as old as mother when she died

Your cushions have grown hard, pebbly inside

Still we thrill to the violin
and the birds splashing in the birdbath

I’ve told friends I’m no Henry the Eighth

intent on divorce

But, who, my darling
will want you when I'm gone?