My Lost Bed

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

MY LOST BED

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I mourn my lost bed,

Covered in clear plastic and thrown out in the trash.

There was no lover in it to pitch out with the orange peels.

I’m sleeping on the floor on a cream coloured carpet

And rolled up pink blankets to soften the blows.

I mourn my lost bed.

It made loud, strange noises every time I moved.

Louisa came for a Reiki treatment and leered,

“This wouldn’t be good for sex.”

There’s more room in the apartment, now,

But my spine misses the comfort of the mattress.

My loins miss the bliss of a lover’s touch.

I’m surfing in Hawaii.

Calling my agent from my sun-drenched deck at Malibu.

I’m walking the red carpet at Cannes

And holding a Golden Bear at Berlin.

I’d like a bed the size of my whole apartment,

Full of hunky floozies and scented candles,

Eating grapes and puking in marble buckets at my Roman orgy.

I lament the burial of my bed,

The first one I ever bought, myself, as an adult.

I’ll pretend I’m camping out at Algonquin Park

Instead of this hard floor and my soft daydreams.

Money in the bank.

Food in the fridge.

Lust in my belly and love between the sheets.

“Come home with me, baby.

We’ll start a life together, if you like.

We can make love on the floor.

I’ll make you feel so good,

You’ll think you’re on cloud nine.”

How’s that for a pick-up line?

My back aches.

I’ve never not had a bed.

Never dreamed I would live without one.

The bedbug epidemic stole my sweet nest.

Can I share yours, maybe, if you wouldn’t mind?

It’s not so bad.

I’ll imagine I’m a boy scout in a pup tent in the backyard.

I’ll invite my best friend for a sleep-over on the cold ground.

The two of us can fool around when it gets dark

As we both pretend to be asleep.

We’ll wake up in the morning in sticky pyjamas

With guilt in our 14 year old eyes.

My bed is dead but it’s not the end of the world.