Ode to a Rumpled Bed

A classroom noisy with replies,
wriggling chairs and teachers smiling to keep cool,
kitchen-askew with colanders and pots agape,
with well licked bowls and sugar-layered fruit,
juice-burst and now succumbed to rolling pin,
Caribbean bones that taste the flesh, a garden
with all its dressings tossed aside —

–is every bed upheaved, its richest earth turned over,
and other-cover smelled for-over earth good-earth–

–nothing can be compared to bed askew,
the frumpious bowling in the sheets,
the quilts become two breathing tents,
a hiding place of downy caves and giggling streams,
pillows for the sweating hair to spread,
shipwrecked legs to fetch up on breast or neck,
and flesh to breech, mishandle and cook itself to ovened dawn.
to face the coffee gurgling in the breasted-urn,
to face the world for toes and teats, that is,
for teas and toasts, whichever way, a brighter sun than yesterday.