As the king size duvet hunched,
the bedroom forgot how to relax,
lost the art of unstacking, silted
with cables and cracked toys,
heaved, like the guts of an attic.
The room snuffed out its candles,
seeing no possible use
for scent, threw cushions off the bed
and then buried them, turned
its two small windows to face inwards.
It started to worry about the point of things,
the future of things, kept them just in case,
became a laundry pile, a haphazard to-do list,
sprouted an unused yoga mat,
neglected to breathe.
Congested, it began to babble.
And when enough words had piled up,
a desk grew in the corner.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Nina
Parmenter would be pleased to hear them.