On a gloomy, humble, rainy day,

I venture into the garage for batteries,

the garage that slurps in cars, burps out trucks,

and spies on the swimming asphalt outside.

With the electric barrels captured, I return to my dwelling.

But first, with the corner of my vision orbs,

my sight crawls on a path between the car and garage door,

just big enough for me to fit

and lands on the couch in the corner.

The one that;s yellow as mold, with stains

as gray as smoke and an aura as mysterious

as a collection of ghost stories.

Flashbacks return, like a loyal canine to its owner,

of childhood memories, early elementary school days. 

A younger version of me jumping on a younger

version of a couch, one that shines like

honey, with the brightness of the sun, as if

asking to be sat upon.

But those days have escaped and perished, for almost

a decade now, leaving the couch gloomy, humble, and maybe crying.