“New Year,” I say to Dad,
the ugly, prickly orange couch all poky on the underside
of my thighs. I can’t include “happy”
this year since, as of this morning,
she’s not here.
I scratch this stupid couch back,
the one we both hated and pleaded Dad to burn.
It was his father’s, and only in the family
because Jackie O. sat on it once
before she was “a Democrat’s wife.” Continue reading