Hands
Hands
Apr 26, 2010

These pillows always sink
Into themselves,
Though you may thresh in vain.
Comfort is only
As far away as from here
To Rorschach,
From the drop of a coin
To the fall of a leaf.
The covers keep slipping
Up and past your feet,
Cold clings to porous holes
In 12 count Egyptian sheets.
Cotton sticks to skin,
Like the bristles of a crab;
You rub feet
Bunion to bunion,
Your hands clack
Claw to claw.
These comforts
Are only temporary,
Disposable,
Thrown from a window
Into a dumpster
And into your cave,
To pervade your oceans
With our human stench.
Despite caverns
And sky between you
And the cold city outside,
The shiver sticks,
Stays on your back
Like sessile sponges
On unsuspecting mollusks.
As the lobster
You rise from the deepest darks
Of night-time in the sticks,
To peer out with tentative antennae
At the messy alley you come to
Lie down in when sleep comes to
Take you away from
A life where the pillows never puff,
The covers never wrap,
And the comfort of your cave
Is always cold.

A box makes a very poor bed, as concrete makes a poor cave.
 
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