30 Poems: Day nine.


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.



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.


Never underestimate,

the tactility of loneliness.



2 thoughts on “30 Poems: Day nine.

  1. Made me think of a comment I heard in relation to the elderly going into aged care. A major complaint was about why they couldn’t gave at least a double bed. For many it had been DECADES since they’d slept in a single bed – so why in their infirm years?

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