The Bed Is The Place

The Bed Is The Place

This morning the bed feels like a tomb
The mattress a stone slab
Blankets are vine, curled around his numb toes.
The fever turns dust particles into small fairies
     that giggle and whisper words turned into
     what appears to be poetry.

This knight in shining armor sheds tears
     of tiredness and self-pity.
Ask him how strong he is
Ask him too how much he is admired
No admiration or strength he will say
He will say that next week he wants his chance
And that this week he cannot be sick
     or else it will be taken from him
     again

This morning the bed is the place
The mattress a safe haven
Blankets will softly lull him to sleep
Sleep well, whiner.

***

March 20, 2017 
Copyright © Darren White