Newly Made

July 29 2012

I flipped the mattress today.

Crazy-quilt lifted, soiled sheets stripped

cover unzipped.

The unmade bed

laid bare.

The familiar room

seemed empty, cold

mattress exposed.

Like row-on-row

for the homeless.

Or something old

dragged to the curb  —

a frat-house couch,

the clothes

his widow cleared out.

There’s a sag in the middle,

a faded stain

I wish I could blame

on someone else.

A third of my life

spent

in this small rectangular space.

Of restless nights

and loneliness,

of sweat, and sex

and human breath

and sleeping next to her.

Left to air,

the purification

of light.

Tonight will be a fresh start,

no need to re-invent, introspect

make amends.

I will feel the firmness

mattress reversed.

The snap of sheets, stiffly creased

the clean detergent scent.

Slip in

to the cool silky brrrrr.

And in the morning, emerge

from my newly made bed.

As if it could make

a difference.