Jan 23, 2013

A Bed to Lie In


I bought this bed and bed frame
off of Craigslist.
Lying on my stomach,
under mounds of blankets,
I can hear the tinnish pings
of old mattress springs creaking
as I fullbody cough.

Two summers ago
when visiting my parents
I could only fall asleep
on a sleeping bag
on the floor.
For four years I’ve slept on beds
in dorms, on loan,
or on the ground.
Commitment is a sturdy wooden frame
you can carve your initials into.
It is initials that will stay +
-ed to yours beyond a month to month lease.
It means voting in the state that you live
not the state that you’re from.

Under the covers,
my eyes adjust to the dark.
I study the branches printed on the fitted sheet
that I bought at Savers.
They remind me of the trees
outside my bedroom window in Lincolnwood.
When I was sick, I would lie in bed
and watch the branches silently rattle
in the Windy City reputation.
Letting the day drift
across my white, metal bed frame,
I thought to myself,
I would be in 3rd period,
5th period, now.
My hypothetical states of being were limited.
Time was a mystery. It hid
in the darkest crevices under blanket forts,
moved through the tree branches
like an eternal hand-me-down;
like nothing is ever yours.

I could be at work,
cleaning my room, now,
I think to myself today,
sinus infection swelling in my eyes.
Every minute, we are paying our dues.

I am 22, still wondering
what class I might be in,
what bed I might be in,
what it means to be present.
Life is a commitment.
Commitment is life.
Time is a plastic, thrift store bag
that catches in the branches
for only a moment.

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