I leave the bed unmade―
toss the duvet to the floor,
leave it, rumpled and quiet,
along with my mother's hysteria.
The unholy mess coddles tomorrow
with pillow whispered yes.
I have slept with you for years―
pink menagerie of primitive art,
socks lost, one at a time,
in fanciful fruit-spilled sheets.
There is not my side or yours―
I stretch out in the center.
tk/March 2014
*"My Bed" by Tracey Emin
