I have a headboard on my bed.
I don’t like when the pillows fall,
slid between the mattress and wall,
with nothing to prop up my head.

I do not have a footboard though.
(It’s a footboard, right? I’m not sure.)
It seems a bedset’s haute couture—
useless ornament just for show.

I also don’t have those siderails.
You know. The kind that toddlers use,
so they don’t fall off while they snooze.
For now, I’ve outgrown such travails.

See, three is my lucky number,
and there can be no objections
if from one of three directions,
I climb in to start my slumber.

Now, though, all that having been said,
I really haven’t slept okay.
Wait! I’ll just sleep the other way!
I have a footboard on my bed.

Sipping from the goblet, green leafs they are
Infused with a fruit that bares billions of seeds within
Lying stretched out now with feathers covering me all about
Pewter on thy chest, and steam billowing from within
A glance to the footboard tells of a new tale to bring back to life
Like a pouch that’s placed inside I’ve placed two now, O’ how I can’t forget
Submerged in steaming water, submerged in a bed of silk there almost the same
Vision of a string and tag now hangs on my jars side
Bee line strait to my right toe that’s where my eyes go
Like a sick joke it reminded me again of another tag I can’t erase from my mind
Soaking in lining, soaking in a mixture of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen
Ever so carful while pressing the bag to get the remaining flavor
Trying not to rip for fear of a foul taste
Like a pouch that’s placed in its chalice with a soul still attached
Body has been brewing all the same told maybe not to rip that bag
For things might not look so good, no fear here I had to see the face
Eyes were closed and red lines running from the corners of her mouth and her nose
With a blink of my eyes I took a picture as if she had posed.

(CARSr. 5-17-12)