2024 NaPM 12 April

[busker]

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my beds
sheets loose and tangled
swirled along 
with the ubiquitous Indian bedspread
tactile memories of ecstasy 
(a rare import), but more often melancholy
pulling me down into their infinite pity 
my kind beds

my best beds:
a sleeping bag next to a fire
in the Uncompaghre Wilderness
after a dose of peyote;
Mary’s, in the old Victorian,
a crystal hanging just above it;
another sleeping bag
on the deck of a mountain cabin
where I made love to my wife
among the Sangre de Christos

the worst bed exists
only in my mind
on it lays my over-dosed son
sprawled at odd angles

no more beds for him
and mine is where I hunt for him
deaf to the songs of the dead
but not blind to their coming

Haunting