UNTITLED

My new mattress is so hard,
it won't give me any rest.

I tried not thinking about you
dying alone in that apartment
on a blood-soaked pillow.
I took it stoically.  Of course
she was old, becoming more frail.
But I wanted to know, really,
how it was in the end,
whether there was pain, whether you knew.
I didn't want you to be frightened,
Bubba.

Yesterday, the dream came
in a shallow sleep, images
unreeling in syncopated time.
You were on the bench,
your face aglow, telling me,
"don't worry, don't aggravate."
How happy you looked, serene.
I woke up with a start.

My new mattress is so hard,
it won't give me any rest.


1972


















All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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