The Bed

The laundry basket plumped full with only my clothing.

The mailbox bottomed with letters addressed to “Mrs.”

A single glass standing upright in my sink.

Bluebird pairs frequenting my fence rail and pirouetting into the sage.

A long song layered with saxophones and piano flowing through in the dark of my house.

The first stemless daisies boosting up bright as new cotton from the prairie soil.

Fumbling through the grocery displays of mangos and sweet pears.

Snipping away my own flicks of errant hair.

Stars falling through clouds above.

Needy cats at my feet.

I can tolerate all of these things.

I can.

But that bed, ever made, always there exactly as I last left it has become too much for me.

--Mitchell Hegman