An Ode to My Bed

This is an ode and poem to my very own double bed, 

A prison cell maybe, but it’s home n a place I never dread.

I do get tired from climbing steep stairs with broken legs,

N I get to the top n need to lie down to rest my creaking pegs.

I’m in my bedroom n through the windows I could see blue sky,

But the curtains R always closed tight n only my paranoia knows why.

Like hospital, I’ve spent days and weeks just lying on my bed,

Waiting for ops or recuperation time, I am the walking dead.

I can hear cars screech early doors, N planes N trains fly by.

N I can block the sound of little barking dogs out if I really try.

I have a nice NHS air mattress on my bed after my thigh was chopped,

It's nice and hard and keeps me waking to find my back broken N flopped.

With my TV on the wall, I watch YouTube N Netflix all day N night,

But the cops do love me so when I hear the doorbell ring I get a fright.

After the deadly ruck I had, blood stains the ceiling N now I have a camera doorbell,

So if blue do come a knocking I can always look at the screen for an early tell.

But I do love my bed it’s the space I have suffered, loved, and cried,

And one of these days it’ll probably be the place I finally rest to die.

© 2022 All Rights Reserved Robert Reid