Go To the Mattresses

This is work related, a conference
where my feet feel like pillows of pain
the bones ache like that loose tooth
that won’t come out, and someone
has filled my heels with hot lava
that I walk on six times a day
going to other sessions.

So when I get to my room, my sanctuary,
in late afternoon, I want to look through
the frothy shears that soften the harshness
of the parking lot, like gauze on the camera
for the last of the Doris Day TV shows. 

The trees close to my window
can be cajoled into a forested glen, the tops
of the distant pines, the mountains, and anything
anything can be in between, as long as I don’t see it.

But today, dragging my torn spine cartilage
and bruised feet into the soft lighted coolness,
I dropped like a stone onto my bedside chair
to enter into my framed fantasy
and found my view blocked
by a mattress.

A square squalidly tufted piece of furniture
that in no way could be identified
as anything but what it was: A mattress. 

And not only was there a mattress,
there were multiple mattresses
lined along the outside of my room,
box springs with fuzzy something clinging
to their undersides like dryer lint
or webs of tent worms.

The quilted uppers,
disdained and stained  through years of Legionaires,
corporate executives, spooners, nooners,
and badly diapered toddlers, advertised their lives
like pulp fiction, prurient ground zero destinations.

Where are you, Don Corleone,
when I need that kiss on each cheek
and the favor that can’t be refused.

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Published in: on January 27, 2010 at 2:11 am  Leave a Comment  

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