bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room

    trying to ignore them

    in the morning， especially Sunday mornings

    it will not let me up. you must sleep

    longer， it says

    facing south

    the bed makes me lay heavenward on my back

    while i prefer a westerly fetal position

    facing the wall

    the bed sucks me sideways into it when i

    sit down on it to put on my shoes. this

    persistence on its part forces me to dress in

    the bathroom where things are less subversive

    the bed lumps up in anger springs popping out to

    scratch my dusky thighs

    my little office sits in the alcove adjacent to

    the bed. it makes strange little sighs

    which distract me from my work

    sadistically i pull back the covers

    put my typewriter on the sheet and turn it on

    the bed complains that i'm difficult duty

    its slats are collapsing. it bitches when i

    blanket it with books and papers. it tells me

    it's made for blood and bone

    lately spiders ants and roaches

    have invaded it searching for food