Frame

My bed has strong arms.

It knows that my body

is heaviest at 6 a.m.

when the alarm sings,

turning my limbs to cinderblocks.

It knows that I am easy

to persuade, amenable,

the sheets whispering:

you feel best tangled up in me.

It knows that I can’t resist

such a commanding comfort,

telling me, always,

the day will only tire you.

It knows that my tired

is almost too leaden to bear,

a weight not carried

by bone or striated muscle.

It knows that I would stay,

sinking into metal springs

until my body

became the frame beneath me.

My bed has strong arms

that never hold me long enough.