a bed alone

it's important to have enjoyed a bed with another,
and to have suffered a bed with another, as well,
to enjoy a bed alone.
splaying arms and legs wide, to the cold frontiers of the mattress,
is appreciable only if one has clung to one side in the past,
loathe to roll over and face an oblivious, snoring log.
a bounty of cottony pillows most delights those who
have settled for the half-stuffed, the rough-seamed,
the foam-block reject before, jealously eying the club
sandwich-triple stack cushioning another's neck.
wrapping oneself twice, thrice, four times 'round
with delicious layers of sheet and blankets and feather-stuffed
duvets is a pleasure understood by those who have shivered
down the hallway to pull a stiff extra blanket from the
bottom of a closet, indignant and now with socks.
a bed to oneself means a chance to be the tosser, the turner,
the sleep-talker, the restless thumper, the thoughtless
roller, the rude rear-bumper ... all the things one never had a chance to be
because the post was already taken.
of course, it can be tiresome, a bed alone, it can be
a bit forlorn. some mornings a familiar face is greatly
missed, some evenings a good spoon would make all the
difference between a good night's sleep and a stretch of
lonely nightmares. but it's important to take the opportunity to
slurp soup, watch movies, spill popcorn, converse with
imaginary friends, love oneself and watch the sun rise from
a quiet, still, soft foundation, before you let another share
your dreams again.