The postman and the puddle

"...Please find enclosed your purchase orders. They came back to me because the address on the front of the envelope was destroyed. (The postman probably dropped it in a puddle)."

There is a couch to sell in September. A couch that has moved more than she has. It has crossed an ocean, like she has. Been witness to scenes without curtains, putrid betrayals, cookie-making, cookie-eating, a cookie-cutter lifestyle.

This is an item that was won, once, in an earlier time, in a more private place. She thinks of her guitar, how strange that she once knew how to play it. With the coming winter, her fingers are fingerless with cold rumination.

A hawk flies. A snake sleeps. The garden can't remember.