Please don’t put that couch on the porch! My husband begged.
It would be so tacky.
Tackier than the refrigerator and ice machine?
They are already out there.
Tackier than five garbage bags full of who-know-what?
They are out there too.
Of course, they are his messes, so not tacky?
I know better than to ask him again so I slide the couch to the porch.
Upon arrival I realize I have two choices.
If I drop it with a thud, he is going to hear the house shake.
He might run out here before I can maneuver it into place.
I have to lift the stupid thing.
It is much heavier than I thought.
I am silently swearing him out as I lift.
Lowering it without dropping it is excruciating.
He discovered this tacky couch on the porch around two that afternoon.
That was six months ago.
I keep taking photos of him sitting on this “tacky” couch daily,
sending them to my friends with the caption
“Who is tacky now?”
But it's Thursday,
the alarm clock rang and a
nightingale squawked
down in Hoxton Square.
A jump start to the day to which
I will pay a price.
Eyes still feeling sleep gritty and
moving tepidly through the
brown streets of the city
I stop for a tea in the Mozart cafe.
Moving on with the song that plays on inside me
I make my way to the Temple
though hardly to pray
Charing Cross that way,
Trafalgar
no battles
just the rattle of a tin can
the beggar man always sits there.
Leicester Square,
tackier that Hoxton
but riches that hide behind casino doors.
Chinatown
more brown streets
authentic cooking
where
East meets the West
I do my best
and that's as good
as it gets
or as good at it is
on Thursday.