This Bed
I’m counting the years I’ve slept
in this Charleston four-poster rice bed,
and yes, the men who’ve slept here with me.
More than five, fewer than a dozen,
only two still rooted in regret.
Even when nights are long and cold,
I let them simply float above me,
serene in the ether.
Tonight the room is stuffy enough
to wake me. I push back the comforter,
slip off my Smart-wool socks
to cool my feet. I roll from side to side,
soothing my mind with deep breathing
and a rhyming game.
The air chills. I pull up the covers,
consider how cozy those socks would feel
if I hadn’t tossed them
across the floor, too far for me to reach.
