Response to Nitoo Das' The Poetry of Everyday Life: 1

Bed

I think we give our beds' too little credit. 
As in, I mean, our mattresses. 
Think about it: 
It is the first thing we grasp at when being shaken awake by nightmares. 
Our hearts are unburdened and begin to relax  

when our eyes finally rest on the old thing. 
And how many times do you REALLY get a new mattress? 
These things know our history. 
They know every person you’ve had sex with. 
Every time you’ve cried yourself to sleep. 
Every time you’ve spent hours of pointless,  

though soul easing, time just listening to music. 
All the times you’ve painted your toenails and gotten  

some glittery green on the bed sheets. 
All those wet dreams you’ve had? It knows them too. 
When you come home and no one else is there 

no mother, no father, no sister, no brother, no aunt,  

no uncle, no grandmother, no grandfather, no friend,  

no foe, no anyone 

the damned mattress knows that you and it are the only ones there.
And how many times has it failed you? It conforms to your form. 
It is hot when you must resist the cold. 
It is cool when you must be cooled down. 
It has cradled you when you’ve been deathly sick. 
It has cradled you and your child  

when you’ve been fit to burst from your belly. 

And really, really, how many times have you gotten a new mattress? 

That thing knows things, you know. 

Lots of things. 

And that old mattress will continue to keep its fabric lips sealed 

and just let you know that it knows those things

Because it’s your damned mattress. 

And it only exists to generously take in and humbly never give out. 

Backpack

I am your backpack 
I carry books and
stories too heavy. 
I am stained 
with ink and oil, 
you're not sure how. 
You toss me on the ground 

for God knows how long 
and look for me 
when I am under your bed 

Or hidden under the sweaty pile of clothes 
You reattach me to your shoulders 
and my straps ache. 
Let someone else carry it. 
Just for a bit.