Fast Floundering
She ate a so much of the couch that it was tattered.
Not from sitting, wear, tear, or despair.
Then the last crumb pounced before a vacuum could make its move.
Stuffing bubbling up.
It happened as fast as a catapult throwing severed feet into the distance.
She liked the taste.
And made no haste.
There was a sound like a trampoline with a dead body jumping all over.
Squealing yellow like mustard splatter.
She couldn’t eat the whole couch.
Not like that.
So she put on her cape.
And the search continued.
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