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| Photo by Tony Buba, 2020. Used with permission. |
by Brett Rutherford
after a photo by Tony Buba
The mattress, vertical,
sleeps none.
Sleepers and dogs
and cats, flakes
of dry skin and dust mites,
a slurry of cracker crumbs
and the sighs of forgotten
orgasms, have sloughed away
into the hungry soil
of the abandoned weedlot.
The mattress, vertical,
more like a tombstone
than a nuptial platform,
dimpled with stitching,
dappled with silhouette
of starving tree-scape,
is hungry for occupants,
makes do with shadows —
a traffic cone considers
a rest, inscribes a "V",
then an inverted signature,
as if to stake a claim.
The photographer, retired,
just comes up short
of putting his outline there.
He hesitates; he's nearly
always sleepy this time of day.
One step forward, one
step back, he hesitates.
No one would notice
if he reclined a while,
just thirty minutes until he'd
be as good as new. But no:
the thought of bedbugs,
hands reaching for his camera,
the curiosity of skunk and badger.
Better to let
a mattress, vertical
go on about
its very important business.
Whatever that is.
