Four-Poster

Four-Poster

I wake up to the blaring warning
of a garbage truck collecting its pay

All day I hear the sirens
of the police beating down some poor kid

The shouts of the doctors
frantically trying to save some deadbeat's life

the yelling newspeople with their politics
and their warm, crimson blood-soaked stories

the rumble of the trucks on the highway
and the cries of the ozone layer dying

the sinister padding of footsteps just behind me
getting closer and closer

And then I come home to the one sound I enjoy -
You.

In a scarred four-post bed that creaks as it rocks back and forth
with you screaming that you love me, or something like that, anyway.