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.