A poem inspired by Fionaoutdoors and her adventure in the furniture shop.
A fine bed
It will last 20 years, they said. This bed.
Like a galleon, strong enough to sail through your stormy nights,
safely to the dawns.
The wood got ready in forests.
Sprouting and branching
while you were still rolling through the bad beds of your youth.
Xylem and phloem, phloem and xylem, taller and stronger.
Your comfort, its destiny.
Then layers of mattress upholstery will elevate your ageing bones,
arranged under the coats of fluffy ducks.
Ah. Down you go.
Relax, you deserve this
a fine place to lie. And dream.
Dream of the careless days when pocket springs and memory
foam belonged to other people,
Only you won’t dream, will you?
Not even if your magnificent cradle is rocked by Morpheus himself.
Sleep, a simple, soothing, seamless snooze has fled.
In its place is fret and fidget.
Hip ache, thoughts clatter.
And then you need to pee.
That’s why you’re in the bed shop. Paying for the very best.
It’ll last 20 years, they said.
Work it out
one more bed and then you’re dead.
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