I In the corner of my couch, a cockroach lives, eating crumbs like a starving seventeenth-century sailor. Light filters through the cushions, a fistful of fireflies in a dark cave.
II On the golden meadows beneath my sofa cushions, a group of metal buffalo escapes the captivity of my pockets. My fingers, five dull arrows, hunt and herd them back into my denim zoo.
III Under my giant sofa, an ancient monolithic stone, a rotten banana lays on my pink Polo shirt, a crushed and wounded flamingo. I lift the corner of my couch and ease the wounded creature out. This bird has been through several hurricanes with me, and I've always remembered to use the gentle spin cycle.
