Now that the War is over,
You've become a piece of furniture,
A sofa or a footstool and I'll use you.
I'll smoke my yellow cloudy cigars and
I'll shout my whiskey curses,
Throwing rags and empty plates.
You'll shrink and turn into
Anything that I don't notice...
Anything at all.
But someday, when I'm wrinkled and thin
Like an old slipper,
I'll notice my leathery hands and face
For the first time and I'll apologize.