Planted

How long have I been here? Sitting: Cross-legged, Indian style; my feet planted on the ground or stretched out next to me. How long have I been sitting? Days, weeks, months? I’ve watched the grass turn dry and brittle, become covered in snow, melt away to sleet and ice, and finally turn back to brittle grass. How long has that been? How long have I been watching TV, movies, video games? How long have I been scrolling through the Internet on my phone, laptop, tablet? How long have I been reading? Doing crosswords? Seriously considering working? I piss, eat, masturbate – but then I’m right back at my seat.

My flesh changes color: brown, black, striped blues and whites. My legs have turned leathery, my skin like flannel, my groping hands prove the wooden textures riding up my buttocks. My limbs are heavy and awkward; they’re numb and plump and strange. I’m filling with cushion, feather, foam. I try to rise from this seat and find it stuck to me. I’m immobile. The frozen distress, the hot uncertainty, the moldy ignored concern is now creeping up my neck. My fingers and toes enlarge to nubs, clubbed feet, elephantine extremities. I can’t rise up, the colors and textures of blankets, pillows, chip crumbs all creep over my throat, my chest, my face. My eyes seize; my sticky hair webs; my lungs stutter to a stop.

And it’s final.

I have become the couch.