I made a figure-four of my legs, and lay in bed longing for rest.

This mattress, the same my mom and stepdad slept on for years.

But after he died my mom moved to another room and the mattress remained for a while unused.

And I wondered, is a bed like a mule, its sole purpose to feel the weight of another on its back?

And are some of us the same, we need to carry somebody else’s weight around to feel full? Or are we doing that to forget our own?

Carry me home, I whisper to the bed. Don’t throw me.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: poem, poetry