Old Bed

Coil of metal, coin of wood, two-headed
and soft in the middle. This bed has got to go.

This pink, synthetic honey spoiling
the tea of my life, already steeped into a stupor.

Why must everybody sleep
so long, so often, every night all night,

indulgent as disco people in the ’70s?
It’s like a fad now faded, trendy and cheap.

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.