Manufactured



No one is here to think about
The sound it takes to make a couch,
The thrumming of needled machines
Stitching a quick and low thread count.

Upholstery is mostly strings,
All tied together tight and neat,
From colors changing suddenly
In some confusing, humming scene.

The fabric doesn’t know the pit
Of chopped up foam in fluffy bits
That mingle in their flowing ways,
Pushed into pillows ’til they fit.

The cushion covers hear the way
The vacuum pressure takes the stage
To make an unsuspecting square
Shrink down for slipping over there.

And you won’t hear a wooden frame
Flinch or quietly complain
About the staple’s stinging wails
When shot from guns with coiled tails.

The buttons have the worst of it,
Smothered with layers where they sit,
Then pressed between heavy machines
That bend and lock shapes as they click.

When everything is said and done,
The zipping, stitching, stinging hum,
The stuffing, shrinking, tucked and wrapped,
The creased and pleated patterns match.

The screwy squat feet bear the weight,
And everything looks plush and great.
No one thinks about those sounds
When all we see’s a perfect couch.  

 

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