Bedtime Story

　　by Wanda Coleman

　　bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room

　　trying to ignore them

　　in the morning， especially Sunday mornings

　　it will not let me up. you must sleep

　　longer， it says

　　facing south

　　the bed makes me lay heavenward on my back

　　while i prefer a westerly fetal position

　　facing the wall

　　the bed sucks me sideways into it when i

　　sit down on it to put on my shoes. this

　　persistence on its part forces me to dress in

　　the bathroom where things are less subversive

　　the bed lumps up in anger springs popping out to

　　scratch my dusky thighs

　　my little office sits in the alcove adjacent to

　　the bed. it makes strange little sighs

　　which distract me from my work

　　sadistically i pull back the covers

　　put my typewriter on the sheet and turn it on

　　the bed complains that i'm difficult duty

　　its slats are collapsing. it bitches when i

　　blanket it with books and papers. it tells me

　　it's made for blood and bone

　　lately spiders ants and roaches

　　have invaded it searching for food