Jay Sizemore

My New Bed

Tonight I sleep in an ashtray,
last night I slept on the couch,
my body squeezed into a space
it was not meant to fit,
like an accordion stuffed into
a coffee can
or a human being inside
a dog house inside a grave
being shoveled over
with eggshells.

I prefer the ashtray,
my feet do not hang
off the edge of my new bed.
Instead, I sleep sound,
I drink in the night whispers
of ghostly conceptions,
the dark stains of
premarital virginity,
phantasms of former selves
that wrap around me
like supernatural blankets.

I dream.
I wake up.
I wash off the scent of smoke,
the aftermath
of living inside
a burning house.

Jay Sizemore writes poetry because he needs to. His attention span is too short to write novels. Blame the internet. Some of his work has seen daylight in journals online and in print. Although he considers a day job to be the enemy of imagination, he has found poverty to be the cruelest of muses. He lives in Nashville, TN with his wife and three cats.

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