Junk Mail Confetti

A couch draped in tatters

collapses in the corner

of a dying room with curtains drawn.

And me on it,

sunken numbly into the abyss

between the lumpy cushions.

That gap filled with endless darkness

is an extra pillow for my hip;

A barrier to an infinite world below

from which loose coins do not resurface.

Without it I would sink right in.

Dark ink, sticky tar

creates a moat around the sofa

afloat with drowning junk mail 

on the floor

A spilt pile in the corner

has merged 

with the other pile at my feet.

Like magnets with sharp edges

the space between them closes.

Physics is magic.

Soul mates; they are together again

At last.

All bills, all loan offers

splayed wetly on the floor,

are overwhelmed by a heavy spoon.

Now dirty and used

reminiscent of last week's confetti.

Evidence of a party

I’d evidently slept through.

Soggy tree pulp 

torn in scattered shreds.

Covered in syrupy resin.

Or soda.

The paper glues back to itself

as it dries.

Now harder, 

now thicker than before.

It rips in jagged crumbles

Paper returns to wood

with an audible wet smack.

I do not hear it.

A busy mouse is doing all the work

while I notice nothing.