For a time
you could spy
a true-blue couch
lodged halfway up
a cliff
a landmark
likely dumped
by drunken teens
lugging it down
the avenue
stumbling to
the lookout
then fumbling it over
the fence
rolling about with
kookaburra
laughter as the
couch goes
tumbling
head
over
head
over
head
Let's be
honest
bird's nest
insulation
an exception
the uses for
a couch
wedged on
a cliff face
goes steadily
downhill
You can't exactly
Netflix and chill
Too dangerous
for Rangers to extract
it remains an
abstraction
with the embankment
nurturing every fold
and crease
Slowly slipping
each rainfall to
the sound of the
Grey Butcherbird
call
the couch
slouches
wrinkles
swells
stiffens
warps
rusts
stains
and runs
becomes brittle
cracked
and mouldy
Isolated
lonely
dreaming past
days of rest and
relaxation
daylight nappers
tucked away lolly
wrappers
drifting couch
surfers
TV dinners
pizzas
burgers
More rain
and the couch
lurches
from weeds
and vegetation
The Rangers
dutifully come
to meet it
in the gully
It weighs a ton
When pulled apart
its inferior interior
stinks to high
heaven
of mothballs
and old socks
Displaced once more
another move is on
They break its back
rip its rotting sides
carry it out in pieces
In the space of half
an hour
the couch
is gone