Yaicha runs.

He sits down, tired,
and says to mom,
"I'm sorry you had to see that."

Inevitable that he does it.

But he doesn't really want
a witness.

Yaicha is named after a song
by some group from the last century called the
Pousette-Dart Band.

Something about a girl,
a candle in the falling rain
shining amidst the pain.
I kind of surprise myself
when I can picture Yaicha as that candle.

My father named Yaicha after the "haunting melody."

I wonder if he ever listened
to the lyrics.

I got an A on the third quiz in American history,
an A,
dammit.
Last time I got a B
up from a C
and my father said,
"if you can get a C
you can get a B,
if you can get a B
you can get an A."-
I got an A
and my father said,
"grades don't mean anything.

I am always there.
But they don't care if I am
because I am furniture.

I don't get hit
I don't get fondled
I don't get love
because I am furniture

Suits me fine.

Then
why don't I tell on him?

If they don't,
why don't I?

Because.

Because I am safe this way,
silent
unnoticed.

The foam cushions
on the old couch downstairs
disintegrate
daily
in a hush,
like each of us,

small flecks of
hardening puffs
raining mute to the floor
when I flop down to study.

And the more the couch gets used,
the less foam it keeps--

someday
just an uncomfortable frame,
springs and other inner workings
exposed.

Silent.