Eileen G'Sell

The man—the salesman—at the mattress store
was beautiful. And very loved.

But he loved only
mattresses, their beautiful
contusions, their floral sighs as bodies

broke them in on winter nights. Or maybe
he loved them for how
they made him fall in love

with people—the joker turned quiet
as he closed his eyes, the waitress
who vowed she’d “never get off.”

His lover, however, did not share this zeal.
She bragged whenever she got the chance
of how she could sleep “anywhere.”

She dared the man to nap upon
the newly vacuumed carpet.
“Here’s your chance,” she mouthed

across the candle-scented air.
There were flowers at his door
and a hornet on his sleeve, and still

the song of coiled springs was all
that he could process. Passion begins
with dread, he said, to whomever

he knew would  listen. The coward hour
his lover left, his bedroom started
sinking. Every door in the house awoke

and swam itself ajar. And the man,
our friend, who was once so loved,
and his firm, capacious mattress?

He has dried his face, put on his
clothes, replaced the damaged
flatsheet. He has left his bed

for the grace of the sale, the simple
sound of staying awake, aware
of the beautiful denseness beneath.

Posted 09/12/09