PULSE

Soft brown sofa - genuine leather -
not for the faint hearted
(animal rights and the contemplation of barbarity,
the rights of all life).
And they creamed, polished and preened it
and draped themselves all over it
while watching TV and consuming popcorn,
and caressed it's neatly buttoned folds.

One Wednesday, a coffee morning.
Upholding it's burden of large ladies,
long-suffering sofa, a big obedient servant.
Then sudden spill,
a splattering of hot coffee over delicate membrane.
Instant panic: damp cloth and deodorizing cleanser,
scrubbing away all traces of beverage, cream and odour.

There was an ashtray too, on a side table,
of solid silver. It was always full -
not that the residents smoked, it was solely for guests.
One day, a guest was a little too animated
in his conversation.
He missed the ashtray, left a burn mark.
Permanent disfigurement.

But they said nothing. He was, after all,
a close family friend, a life-long one
that they could never risk offending: supportive
in all emergencies, funny - the archetypal clown
who lifted spirits: Life is to be enjoyed, not taken seriously!
He was always the centre of attention,
life and soul of every party. He said Never cry
over spilled coffee and What is a tiny burn mark between friends?
And the room erupted with laughter.

Does this sofa have a soul? A new friend asked.
Feel it. Here in the crease of the arm
there's a curious warmth.
Go on, feel it! It feels like your own skin.

There's been suffering here, you know.
And there is immunity. 
Override the latter.
Push your hand further down
until it's quite swallowed up. Reach past
the layers of stitching and stapling,
folding and gluing, with your sensitive fingertips.
FEEL IT!
The warm, pulsing dermis of the cow.