The poem reads like a handful of fragments pulled from a memory, and some of them seem to start mid-thought. It begins with the body: a bare back, cool and soft thighs. Then it shifts to ordinary household things, a chair, a cup, and a television the speaker calls "unforgettable," which is funny because a TV is the sort of object we usually forget we're looking at.
The last lines give us the clearest moment. The speaker has come to meet someone after work, and that person is late. Couches circle the Old Capitol Building "like a haze with cushions," a strange, dreamy picture that turns a public place into a living room. The speaker simply sits down.
The mood is drifting and a little dislocated. Intimacy and domestic clutter blur together, and the speaker seems patient, maybe slightly lost, willing to wait. The poem never explains the gaps, so the feeling comes from the odd images and the sense of time passing while someone doesn't arrive.