The squishy adaptability
Of my memory foam pillow
Insures that the side of my face is
Properly buried
The feel of scraggly whiskers
Pulled roughly across the cotton
Pillowcase
Yanking gently the baby skin of my face
So I do feel something
Bryar's "Sinking of the Titanic"
Colors the air in the room
A timbre of melancholy
That effortlessly fills every square inch
From floor to ceiling
Tires our eyes, so heavy the forehead
So close to sleeping
So soon to seeing
That big fateful iceberg
Plenty of time to disappear into
Soft carpets and secret rooms
They're only purpose
To lull me to the paradise of sleep
After they explain to me how I got this old
Sometimes I don't mind
Other times they stink of death