Comfort - Nov 16 2023

 

Comfort

Nov 16 2023

The bathroom faucets gleam.

Freshly laundered towels

are neatly stacked

fold out.

And the sheets have been pulled tight,

so when you slip in

between their stiffly starched whiteness

you feel pinned down,

as if held

against your will.

But the comforter,

which has been expertly spread

with a single sharp flick

   —  fluttering down

in a cloud of dust

on a pillow of air,

smells of smoke

stale sweat

animal sex.

You know it's never been washed,

and imagine the bodily fluids

that would glow under black light.

The nights of debauchery

hard liquor

and depressed men,

seeking comfort

far from home.

The newlyweds, on honeymoon,

already discomfited

by niggling regret.

The resentful man

alone in bed

comforting himself.

And the incontinent lust

of the young king and queen

on prom night,

which was either “Paris in Spring”

or “Under the Sea;

neither of whom are comfortable

with how things turned out.

So at the end of a fitful sleep

you leave the maid

a generous tip.

Who will neaten up

with practised efficiency,

the superficial clean

that does the job.

But not enough to remove

the whiff of desperation

that infuses the room,

the history

you can't expunge.

The comforter

that has witnessed all the comings and goings,

but does not judge

or leave exposed.