Couched

Sat there, the righteous couch, like the boulder those folks rolled back to reveal Jesus. Of course, there’s no Jesus sat there on this couch, this couch that squats low and fat by the scrubbed out window with its wanton gauze curtain that’s just a little grubby. Jesus is not a lover of corduroy and my god, this couch is king of corduroy you know those black granity ribs that leave that grid pattern all over your arse or at least they would if you could see your own arse but you’re too old for that twist and pout these days isn’t everybody? If asked, Jesus might have said that the couch had the scent of wet Spaniel or Judas or even a fish finger sandwich but nobody asks Jesus about the couch because there are far more important things to be discussing with the Son of our Lord. When pestered, the curator has little to say on who originally owned the couch or how anyone managed to get it up the tight stone spiral staircase to the top floor although she has her suspicions. So here it is, a discomforting resting place for those who make it to the top of the building gasping and wheezing to peer out through the grubby gauze and the haar and over the supermarket car park that adjoins the seventeenth century graveyard. Couches, cars, gauze, gravestones – all as squat, righteous and pointless as each other.