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 3^rd period,
5^th 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.

Before Snow

With the air so clear, the world outside
is hardly a world at all, rather a depth
of incredible diversity-- each street spans
as far as the last tiny building or bridge
where my eyeline temporarily halts.
The cold scrapes like sandpaper, my fingers
do not feel attached, everything is strafed
equally by the cold that slips between thing
and itself like a knife around an unbaked pie crust.
As the first flakes tip the grass blades,
one feels the grass to be chapped as lips,
but uncomplaining, without even a lick
to taste the coming scab. Nothing but you
needs reasons for the cold, and you can't help but feel
that the street's whole inanimate population
has felt sorry for you for a long time.

The Blessings of Nothing Special *

Beer glass on bar top.

Thermal long-sleeve.

Sunny Montana Monday,

national holiday.

I live in America and I’m glad,

not because this country’s great,

but because this country’s great:

hot water standard.

Stove, gas or electric.

I don’t have a disease

that keeps my body from digesting food properly,

but if I did, I’d have

drugs to help me digest my food properly.

I don’t need glasses

to read the newspaper.

But if I did, I’d have

glasses to read the newspaper.

I can read the newspaper.

I can read.

I’m I.

And sometimes that’s a heavy burden, this I.

Sometimes this I stinks like a canine corpse

and zombies like a fascist football commentator

But this I-ing is miraculous.

The hair on my arm that ends at my hands.

The scar on my left hand that gleams hardcore.

The fingers of my left hand that still have feeling.

These feelings.

I speak English,

and for some reason everyone else does, too.

This chicken ham sandwich is delicious.

Why is there a chicken ham sandwich in front of me?

Huh, universe?

Why a universe?

Why a Big Bang

and not a small poof?

Why not nothing at all?

That would be so much more sensible.

Nonsense, thank you

for blessing me with sense

enough to be sensitive

to what shouldn't make sense

and does anyway

so I can bow to these blessings

bestowed upon nobody special

from nothing specific

in no particular order.

The bartender asks
do I need anything else.

* Title taken from Paul S. Bellwoar's poem "Columbus Day"