by Timothy Pilgrim
We’re making the bed
after the night of failure
not that it’s always like that.But it does happen
sometimes, given my age
and I wonder if it’s even possible
to fold a fitted sheet
shrunken, wrinkled, sad.
By the time it’s stretched out
all corners finally tucked
we’re both sweating, staring
at each other across the void
of taut whiteness
her with the two firm pillows
me, alone with the comforter
almost all down.
Timothy Pilgrim, a Montana poet living in Bellingham, Washington, has more than six hundred acceptances from U.S. journals such as Seattle Review, Red Coyote, Toasted Cheese and Santa Ana River Review, and international journals such as Windsor Review in Canada and Prole Press in the U.K.–and has published some books. See timothypilgrim.org
Hawaii Pacific Review 