sofa

* I requisition the sofa. The black dog is unfazed, perching in his usual indentation at the top of the back. He arranges himself so as to see through the peek of his eyes just what I am up to on this warmish November afternoon. The sofa I usually leave to them, its human use consisting of a "how was your day" moment when my room mate comes from work. 
   The floor lamp on in obeyance of my dead father's warning of blindness caused by reading in the dark. Forget that the sun streams through the door and windows heartily. Admonitions ingrained while young echo through eternity. 
   I am pretzeled on this love seat reading on a November afternoon. I deliciously brought home a heavy bag of books, ate tomato soup, tried the sunny deck, sneezed, and now it is the sofa for me. I have discovered Alan Bennett's writings. 
   The book hits my nose.
   Later I wake to the large eyed staring of the yellow dog. 
   Must be up.