That Bed Poem by Martin Ward

That Bed

That bed
just lay there
since the last person in it
was dead.

The room
felt fusty,
and the ornaments
had witnessed
the death
of the person
in the bed
that was in the room.

There was something
about that room
that haunted me
or haunted the room.

I sang myself to sleep
at nights,
in the bedroom
next door
to that room.

There was something
in that room:
maybe it was that bed,
or maybe what remained
of the person
that died in it.