The Sofa That Prayed



THE SOFA THAT PRAYED

It was the seclusion
of your parents rec room
that we sought,
not the board games or TV.
The moans and gasps
that escaped your lips
echoed with pleasure
over the furnace
and washer/dryer combo.

It was so damned easy
to be hard
when you nibbled
on my earlobe
and kissed my neck.
I was astounded then,
and I still am today,
that so much bliss
was free for the taking.

I took a fiendish delight
in watching your long
impossibly smooth legs
extend straight upward,
like antennae that
were receiving
the signals I was sending.

You tried to be quiet,
it was your parents house,
but your passions
carried with your voice
and the Lord was called for
over and over again.
The sofa springs
on that tired piece
that was likely part
of a nice set, once,
were the only things
that were less quiet
than the hundred times
you screamed, “Oh God!”

I am quite certain
that if your parents knew
how religious you were
while on that sofa,
they would have assumed
you would be a saint by now.






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