Voices on the Wind Voices from Teen Years
Me and my bed by Lars Samson When I was 9 my bed was a fortress whose covers were parental battlements against the late-night TV monsters which had leaked into its black moat Its covers were safe lines bent like a mother's shoulders at the corners worn like a scrapbook of briefly remembered dreams and warm forgottenness sometimes visited by women doing unseen things to me Then it was a pyre that bore my prayers and rationalizations to the mute sky Like God or Socrates were evening elves who put reasons under the pillows of believers In early manhood I avoided it saw it as holes in time tried to wait it out till dawn Women came and left sweaty indentations in the sheets motionless like chalk silhouettes on concrete It hid me unless I drank too much night then it circled on me and sank towards the gagging ceiling Lately it brings a pain to my lower back like memories shrugging in longcoats which don't quite reach the ground Our daughter and son see it as a field trip or sanctuary but the wife and I call it home