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.
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.
