Once the unattractive, dreadful futon departs,
there will be an empty space on the oak floor.
When walking past the spot where the splintered wood resides,
emotions fill up the room like a toddler on Christmas Day—
joyous for the gifts Santa gave, yet silently took away.
A burden will fall off the shoulders of the homeowner,
who embarks on a glorious future free of harmful tenants.
The laminate might be ruined from the piss of dogs,
but it will be honest, pure, alone, and wiser than the futon—
broken, shattered, and lacking substance and a sense of self.