A sofa was walking down Mine Street,
upside down, wearing jeans and Adidas
sneakers. A cushion hung down its front
held by what could only be called a hand.

Earlier, I had seen it leaning against
a utility pole at the curb—recycling
day for garbage collection—no jeans,
no sneakers, no hands from what I

could see with a perfunctory glance.
By chance, a car was coming. I couldn't
tell if the sofa had eyes, ears, but I yelled,
"watch it." The sofa stopped. The cushion

dropped in the street. I held up a hand
to the oncoming car. It swerved with a honk
and drove on. "You alright?" I called out.
"If you could just hand me that cushion

I'll be fine," said the sofa. I picked it up,
the hand-like appendage regained its hold.
A voice inside the upholstery said "thanks."
I answered, "my pleasure." The sofa and

a woman who talks to furniture walked on.

from RHYME & RITUAL: Reflections on Self, Family and Community, published by NCC/Family Services Bureau, Newark, NJ, July 2000. ©Lanza 1998, all rights reserved.


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Talk With My Hands
Linda Lanza
P. O. Box 7695
North Brunswick, NJ 08902