I imagine it must look something like mine;

a couch covered in hard, black spots
from falling asleep with a cigarette;

tragic women sieged here,

beer cans and black velvet bottles littering the floor,
a deep brown stain in the center-
the pipes must leak;

our coffee table a tableau of poems, manuscripts,
paper plates,
and one lone porno;

the TV seems out of place, but it belongs
somewhere in the corner, gathering dust;

on the south wall there is the light-
switch leading to nowhere-
maybe to the neon sign
in the bar window we go to at night;

and then there is the recliner I write in-
the one we saved because it wasn’t ours
and we couldn’t give it away.