Beds are interesting places. They are supposed to be kept for sleeping and fucking. Mine, like many people’s is also the place for reading, writing, chatting to the kids, talking on the phone, eating toast (and then complaining about the crumbs), crosswords, laptops, knitting, menu planning, budget balancing…my current state of spinsterhood is clearly due to the fact that there is no room for a lover. Literally.
So here is a poem about being in bed.
Which I wrote in bed.
WHO PUT THESE BLOODY CRUMBS IN HERE????
Stroking the cool, cotton sheets
Feeling all 500 threads through fingertips
Adjusting head into soft, feather pillow
Enjoying the weight lifting off neck
Wriggling toes freely under warm, weightless, duvet
Sensing cool breeze blowing over bare arms
Sprawling body out luxuriantly,
Cuddling up to warm, purring cat.
the tactility of loneliness.