So much is about beds.
My father’s sickbed
became his deathbed.
When I had my appendix out,
I heard the nurse’s new name for me:
Bed Number Two.
My roommate, Bed Number One,
complained unceasingly about
his assigned bed and wanted mine.
Until I was seven
I wet my bed. My brother said
I did in on purpose.
Even when we fall in love,
what do we do?
We go to bed.
My mother said:
You made your bed,
now lie in it.
Then she said:
Life is no bed
of roses, ole pal.
Beds, then,
are nothing but trouble.
When it gets warm
maybe I’ll sleep on the grass.