They said I made my bed

so I have to lay in it,

yet I sleep on a sofa

perhaps for a while

and during the day if

I am lucky, if I have had the temerity

to take tablets and pain killer courage

by the bundle; I rarely get to see a bed

and when I do it seems it was made up

by maid service or the dumb waiter

who never actually let me finish

my fucking sentences

because it either suited them

or because they believed the worst

of me anyway, a toy to play with,

a toy with a sofa to rest the eyes for a while.

 

I never made my bed,

however should I one day be able to

do you think I would settle

for the itchy fabric, the scratch driven

surface and the thin, torn and over

used sheets, shit stained, deeply engrained

smeared crap which gets in every crevice

and possibly contains lice, that makes your

privates look like jungle fever;

No, the day I make my bed it will be four

poster, luxurious sheets and pillow cases

that are firm but wonderfully plump

so you can bury your face in them

as you get shafted all ways,

the drapes will block out every possible chink

of supposed light and there will be a turn

down service, as there always has been,

leaving me in resplendent isolation

to deal with my own crap, of my own making.

 

Make my own bed,

I haven’t even found the framework

or enough goose feathers yet.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016