The Used Side of the Sofa, by Alberto Rios

When she walked
She left herself
Where she had been.
Every year that treadled
Asked something of her,
And with every breath
She breathed out more
Than she took in,
And when she walked
She left her footprints,
Then her feet,
As she later could feel
Nothing under her.
When she sat then rose
She left an indentation.
A part of her
Too comfortable,
Not following so easily
The rest of her.
And when enough was gone,
An arm forgotten here,
Or there a leg
Fallen asleep,
We learned to walk
Quickly through her.
We excused ourselves,
Begged her pardon
Those first years,
But then there were
So many of us
And walking so fast,
It was better simply
To say nothing
So that she did not feel
The need to respond.