Bed

While making the bed,
a déjà vu of making the bed.

Love is a different kind of making,
though it too transpires in bed.

Sometimes I think why bother. It will
only get messed up again—the bed.

We leapt the garden gate,
slept late in a marigold bed.

Unlike love that misleads, these letters
make the shape of what they mean—bed.

Leaving you would be easy (that’s untrue)
as throwing a clean sheet over the bed.

They have in common lying—
your untrusty love and a bed.

Once dashing active verb,
now dull noun—bed.

Drunk on wine or fresh love, could
we yet float this sobered bed?

(Published in The South Carolina Review)