Its springs are twisted
Slinkies. It smells
like cold dog and smoke,
like work shirts. Fabric cracks
and unwinds where it cradles
the body. The armrests yield
bits to tear at nervously. That’s kind.
It holds you, keeps secrets.
Each day it finds a new way
to say, Yes. Here. You’ve
earned this. This couch
is for the body. It listens.
It doesn’t judge; gives
when needed. The couch
waits, ready. It knows
of nothing else to do.

Michael VanCalbergh currently lives in Normal, IL. His work has recently appeared in the Chicago Reader, After Hours Magazine, Beaver Magazine, and many other spaces. He writes reviews for the Comics Beat and edits for SRPR. You can find him on BlueSky (@mvcpoet.bsky.social) or at Widely Read (https://widely-read.ghost.io/).