My Bed

You were a truly pathetic sight in the maze of acrylic and wood that is the ikea showroom.

You, the twin sized model, were on display in all of your significantly unimpressive Birchwood glory.

They called you the Dalselv, which I’m fairly certain, is the Swedish word for “leftovers”.

They draped you in a terrifying weedy green mess of sheets and covers and placed you next to the bunk beds.

You were a pariah, exiled from the bedroom suites; they forced you to stare at what you could have been.

I came to realize that your cousin, the full sized model, would be a good friend to my lumbar spine who, had just recently chosen to divorce itself from carpeted floors.

You were hilariously cheap, but not in the sleazy “I’ll let anyone sleep on me” way.

I took you and your friend the sultan foam mattress home so you wouldn’t feel too alone.

You were stubborn at first; your instruction booklet a gospel of self assembling lies.

I’m sorry your mid-beam is so poorly constructed and your slats are crooked.

I hope that my tired body doesn’t stop your dreams from floating upward.


Please don’t break.