My Owl Couch

The deep depth of your black skin,
The reflective surface of your clawed feet,
A single curved arm and long curved back
Studded with silver bullets.

The contents inside remain unseen,
Hidden in the crevices of the couch;
Though large and loud the contents
Are as wise as the creatures beheld.

Shaking the couch reveals the sounds -
The sounds of your first item,
The largest and the best of them,
Wise with glasses and large with attention,

Followed next by the small and large alike,
The bright and the dull similar.
Moving or still the pieces are
A hidden beauty and a loving touch,

All held together inside your ample depth,
That deep and dark skin,
And your shallow light feet
Holding my heart, holding myself.