Bed

The best part of my day
is immediately after I make the bed.
For one moment, I’ve made one thing in my life
tidy and smooth and nearly perfect;
perfect enough to satisfy, in any case.
For one moment, such a miracle is within my power.

It won’t last. It never does.
A dog’s nap or a load of laundry or
my own surrender to exhaustion will rumple it,
ruin it.
I know this before I even set to making it.

All cups are already broken.
All beds mussed, and must be lain in nonetheless.

But I get up and smooth it again,
and it is better, thought not quite the same,
not as good as it was the first time.

Still I try. I approximate.
I can pretend I can impose order.
I can impose my will;
a small, temporary victory that must be appreciated
because it is the only kind there is.

The bed will be there until
I decide to haul it away.

It will not sicken.
It will not die.
It will not leave.
It has yet to disappoint,
and I don’t expect it will,
so long as I can fall into it,
eyes closed, waiting for oblivion.

I catch myself stopping as I walk in and out of the room,
about my day, to admire
its clean lines
its steadfast sensibility
chalking up the loose threads that mar the view
all wabi-sabi
to mere time and not approaching chaos,
though they are, in fact, both.

I’d give up infinite space for this
nutshell of a room
blue and quiet
a museum
where nothing is touched
nothing is disturbed
where all waits in infinite patience
infinite patience
if I would only close the door
if I could only keep it so.

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