and thats not even the 1/2 of it

the mattresses of brooklyn have a story to tell.
they get tossed out, picked up, passed on.
in cycles of 2 years or less.
those two bought a bed together.
she brought other men to it,
other men to absorb the dust mites, sweat odor, and smell of lavender fabric softener.
he gave up on the city, gave away a long dead old womans bed that he inherited.
("to whom! to whom!", the greek chorus wonders.)
she fell in love again, they inherited a bed who had already seen two of her ex lovers before she ever laid in it
(is this what our mothers intended when they taught us to share)
the first mattress rest against the wall.
he moved back to the city.
the mattress is not a conciliation prize, a forget me not.
its just that the city is hard, the floor harder.
and besides that mattress hasn't experienced all the tears, menstrual stains, love making, sleep overs, sleep ins, stories and sodomy it deserves.



(From the google phone in a dressing room)