The Lazyboy

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.