The old couch sits by the road
free in the cold northern rain
twice ruined – eviscerated by sunrot
and drowned under the surface
of the numbing leaden sky.
In her prime she was ugly
but gave me comfort on long nights
when I dreamt of Violeta Parra
walking among the Araucana
lugging her tragic reel-to-reel
And singing for her far-fled flautist.
It’s past time for the axe.