I’m going to write a book about my life. It may be a collection of poems though. We’ll see. I got inspired, and decided to write a poem about last night.
It wasn’t even mine yet.
The folded, faded cushion hastily called a mattress.
This pastry of a bed was frosted with my month old sheets and caseless pillow.
On top of it all a blown out blonde candle.
She laid there like a parakeet among the pigeons,
just not right.
My hand found it’s way to her shoulder.
“Hey…”
Already anticipating the slurry of sleep I was about to have, I said,
“Hey, Wake up. You’re in my bed”
I did my best to help her up.
We held hands not like lovers, but like climbers.
On this occasion it’s good I was not holding her over a
gargantuan gorge,
she fell.
We navigated to a couch, a more suitable replacement to the futon consoling her.
She fell asleep, face down, on a cushion as if she were telling it,
secrets.
I found my way back to my room.
and fell asleep to an already warm bed.
Joshua Ziering