Mattress

Latticed fleece beneath
A hilly range of synthetic fibers
Motionlessly compressed
Within pileous pyramids of
Limp duvets
Stack on my face

Like an old man’s beard,

Indecently shaggy.

Permanently horizontal,

I endure an imperfect life.

Ponds of saliva sink,

Snuggled in my intimate surface.

These moist depressions turn yellow

Like piss colored, pussing scabs.

Day old, unwashed skin

Eternally leaning and grinding

Against my sagging belly.

Two or three permeable layers

Of sheets and fluff

Are all that exist

Between me and the pubic hairs

Of the sleeping and sex

Of strangers, passing.

Years marked by
The sweat, the stink, the crust.

Their weight condenses my thoughts,

Crushes my breath.