SONNET TO A RANCID URN-EMBROIDERED SOFA
If I were on this sofa, say, to fuck
Another human being or to read
A gorgeous book, could I by that mere act
Redeem the noisome stuff upholstered here?
Might this sofa some salvation fear
In comforting a butt untimely cracked
Or pillowing a brain inclined to feed
Or would it still be free to simply suck?
The urns embroidered here, have they the luck
To hold embroidered ashes, myrrh or mead?
Or are they merely pointless; or in fact,
Are they not urns at all, but faces leering?
Answer to these questions? Yes, it's sad:
An object can be absolutely bad.
DOUGLAS ANTHONY COOPER