Poetry About Mattresses

In springs sighing beneath a sleepless turn, mattresses finds a visible shape. A new bed wrapped in clear plastic carries what ordinary speech leaves unfinished. Between sunlight crossing an unmade sheet and a child jumping before bedtime, the heart learns to listen. Rest depends on ordinary objects we notice most when they fail, though the day rarely says so aloud. By night, an old mattress waiting by the curb becomes a promise rather than an ending.

A new bed wrapped in clear plastic enters the poem first. Mattresses follows, neither symbol nor explanation, but weather. A child jumping before bedtime keeps the difficult measure. We stand near springs sighing beneath a sleepless turn and let certainty loosen. Rest depends on ordinary objects we notice most when they fail. An old mattress waiting by the curb remains after the room grows quiet.

Someone remembers sunlight crossing an unmade sheet. Someone else names springs sighing beneath a sleepless turn and means an entire life. Mattresses moves between them with patient hands. A new bed wrapped in clear plastic refuses to become only background. Rest depends on ordinary objects we notice most when they fail. At last, an old mattress waiting by the curb gives the silence somewhere to rest.