We must displace what has been forgotten,
discarded: an old bed
on which no one has slept in a decade.
Down the stairs the mattress slides,
followed by box springs
as if on the run, as if escaping a lonely cell.
We search for the head- & footboards
in storage, their iron supports
already leaning against the wall like skis.
We grant sleep to someone who has none.
We offer sleep;
up to the recipient to accept.
Other items will follow another day:
a desk on which to record the saddest memories,
a chest of drawers where tangible
proofs of lust might be concealed.
For now, this is what we have to share:
the heaviness & enlightenment of rest.
Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, including Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021). His poems have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Mid-American Review, Harvard Review, River Styx, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where writes and tries to stay out of trouble.