One by one, they escape–couches, sofas, davenports.
They sag by the curb, breathing deep the fresh air of front yards
nonchalantly, as if we might not notice, as if this were their native habitat.
Another sign of spring, shy couches familiar as robins, rain, forsythia.
But one faded floral holds a sign in her lap declaring herself,
brazen as as a teenager with a slogan on her t-shirt:
I Am Free.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 