Found a receipt from three years back between the cushions,
which raises some important and archaeological conclusions
about the sediment of time and how it layers in the couch —
the stratigraphy of not caring is a scientific grouch.
Down below the receipt there’s a pen that stopped working in 2021,
which was the year I also stopped working in a similar run —
the pen and I have a shared history of getting stuck
and sitting in the couch until somebody ran out of luck.
Couch archaeology, dig the layers of not caring,
couch archaeology, excavate what’s been despairing —
the artifacts tell the story of a man who used to move,
couch archaeology, and this cushion’s got the groove.
There’s a potato chip from a bag I don’t remember opening,
which the forensics suggest occurred somewhere in the soaping
and rinsing of the year where all the weeks became the same week —
the chip is a time capsule from the depths of technique.
I found the TV remote I reported missing in the fall,
under the couch, beside the charging cable, next to all
the evidence of my domestic archaeology of drift —
the remote was there the whole time and I didn’t know to lift.
A birthday card somebody sent that I forgot to open sits
between the cushion and the armrest like a relic that emits
its social obligation quietly in the dark —
I opened it: “thinking of you, hope you’re well” — that’s the mark
of a person who is actively investing in my wellbeing,
which is more than I’m currently investing and worth seeing —
I put it on the table with the intent to respond,
which is more forward momentum than I’ve had in a while, so bond.
My buddy texted: “you good?” and I texted back “yeah totally”
which is the standard modern answer to the standard query —
totally is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence,
it’s carrying the weight of several years of non-repentance.
I’ve been meaning to go to the gym since it was cold and is now hot,
meaning to call my brother back since — well, I forgot
exactly when he called but the voicemail says he’s good
and I’m good and we’re both good in the way good people should.
The couch has received me so many times it’s stopped expecting
anything from the reunion — no fanfare or inspecting,
just the accommodation of a surface to a weight —
the couch and I have reached a comfortable non-aggression state.
I could reorganize my life, I could restructure the whole deal,
I could unearth the person in the sediment who used to feel
the urgency of forward and the pressure of the possible —
but the couch archaeology suggests that’s not quite accessible.
The layers tell the story, and the story goes like this:
a man sat down to rest and then discovered that the bliss
of not getting up was better than the bliss of going out —
and the couch received the verdict without any specific doubt.
The artifacts are catalogued, the dig has reached its bottom —
the oldest layer is a man who used to have a rhythm —
now the layers above him are the layers of the settled,
and the archaeologist lies back in the couch, unnetled.
The next layer will be me, lying here in the soft sediment,
a future archaeologist’s find — the evidence, the artifact
of a man who sat and watched the layers form above his station —
the most comfortable dig site in the world, this excavation.
Future archaeologists will date the layers by the brand names —
the specific snack wrappers and the specific claim-fames
of the consumer culture of my era, carefully preserved —
“here lived a man who sat” will be the finding unreserved.
The grant proposal writes itself: “subject showed consistent patterns
of sedentary habitation across multiple decades — matters
of archaeological significance include the remote and the receipt —
the subject appears content” — and the finding is complete.