Bags-under-the-eye-grey,
skin with enough friction,
flesh soft like a Sunday.
The Legend. You sit, shaped
like a handgun or a thumbs
up in the middle of the room.
Sweat paints the walls, chest
bones are twice their weight,
cushions wrap themselves
around limbs like a gardener’s
hand lifting a fallen bird from the grass
behind a house from the past, the TV playing
cartoons, the air a roast dinner and the
whisper of your product name. The Legend.
You will never get called a sofa in this flat.

© Carl Burkitt 2023