bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room trying to ignore them in the morning, especially Sunday mornings it will not let me up. you must sleep longer, it says facing south the bed makes me lay heavenward on my back while i prefer a westerly fetal position facing the wall the bed sucks me sideways into it when i sit down on it to put on my shoes. this persistence on its part forces me to dress in the bathroom where things are less subversive the bed lumps up in anger springs popping out to scratch my dusky thighs my little office sits in the alcove adjacent to the bed. it makes strange little sighs which distract me from my work sadistically i pull back the covers put my typewriter on the sheet and turn it on the bed complains that i'm difficult duty its slats are collapsing. it bitches when i blanket it with books and papers. it tells me it's made for blood and bone lately spiders ants and roaches have invaded it searching for food
Copyright © 1993 by Wanda Coleman. Reprinted from Hand Dance with permission of Black Sparrow Press.
Born in 1946, Wanda Coleman was the author of several poetry collections, including Bathwater Wine (Black Sparrow Press, 1998), which won the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize.
Date Published: 1993-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/bedtime-story