We will stretch our bodies
long on the futon tonight,
though it is cold and blue and
we are hot and pink.

It rocks nightly from couch
to bed, but never quietly,
never without a squeaking
reminder of the broken wood

beneath us, of the pegs
that have aborted their lean bodies
into the mess of underneath,
a hell of magazines and socks

and discarded other things.
It has seen us on the frame
and floor, and I have been
beneath it with a wrench

and screwdriver and the weight
of it on my knees.
It has fallen and shook
and hit the wall with anger

and passion, and sometimes
with sleep, when the mattress,
thin and abused, settles and
its spine is revealed beneath ours.

04/01/2003

Author's Note: found poetry- writing workshop, approximate date.

Posted on 11/03/2003
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason