We Argue About The Aesthetics Of Garbage Poem by Leah Browning

The green couch, its pale arm peeled back
to reveal cardboard and staples, leaks
clumps of stuffing across the grass.

We’ve carried it all the way up from the basement,
lifted it over the railing, pinched our fingers
shimmying it through the doorway.

This is the first furniture we ever bought together,
now marred by claw marks and baby vomit,
the threadbare pillow covers peeled off and washed

a hundred times. All night, the couch will sit outside
in the dark, supporting an old stroller’s spongy handle,
pieced back together with strips of clear duct tape.

At first, we are laughing as I adjust the couch,
placing it perpendicular to the lip of black asphalt,
and neatly stack the discarded paper boxes

on the grass next to the trash can. “Leave it be, ”
you finally say, and when I refuse, you go inside
without me. I move each item until it is just

where it should be, and then I lie down
on the green couch and watch cars drive by
this precise and orderly arrangement.