Bed Snatcher
 
In this room where no man has slept for sixty years
since grandfather was banished for snoring,
I exchange embroidered lilac for plain blue.
                                                                                                                
He chuckles at my spinsterish hot water bottle
companion of an afternoon nap.
Blushing I fling it to the floor.
 
His slumberous breathing blares like a brass band.
I need deaf silence to sleep.
Arms and legs advance over the mattress
 
as I lie watching through the curtain’s cleft
for light to agitate the darkness, 
cribbed on a ledge of my bed.

Fiona Sinclair

If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair  would be pleased to hear from you.