The Hub

My home has come, my home has gone
but has always been confined
to a space that I claimed mine,
the bed in whatever form.
I’ve had a sleigh bed, a futon
a garbage-picked mattress,
and at times just a blue sleeping bag.

Now, I lay in a plain old bed for two
that will follow me to another
place soon. Although the springs
are nearly shot and I roll, sometimes fall
to the floor in mid-dream, I’m loyal
to the hub for it listens to me
when I do whatever I must.

In a month or so, I’ll see new walls
from my bed and hope asbestos spores
won’t sprinkle death on me or my bed mate
like it did before to another, or so said
the batty old lady next door.
But if my lungs rot and spit,
the bed will carry.