Walking Beds

Not in any particular direction.

But somehow in concert

with the other furniture.

Me as a boy says to me

“Why don’t you stop them?”

“The days go by,” I say,

praying that this is weighty,

meaningful. But I know

me as a boy knows

that it means as much

as karaoke lyrics that flash

on the screen and never

get sung. “Straight up now

tell me,” me as a boy whispers.

“Do you love me?” Once again,

I am dumbstruck. I have no answer.

I can only pretend that the beds

have slept as well as us, slept

through both of our lives,

waking only in fits of temptation.

I flop down. I believe I know

where the bed is. But my elbow

folds and smarts. Sudden impact

feels unusual, lighting the mind

like a flashing screen. The bed must have

been walking again. I knew

where it was yesterday. “My memory

is distinct,” I wheeze to me

as a boy, trying to put myself back together,

knowing parts of me have been knocked

loose and remain on the floor. “I know,”

says me as a boy, “But still I don’t

believe you.” Precocious little fucker.

But his life will be precarious,

never knowing what to confront

when he wakes, or how awake

he’ll be, like the way he imagines

the consciousness of a daffodil

he watches grow in stop-motion.

 

Nicholas Haines

Nicholas Haines is a writer, teacher, and musician from New York’s Hudson Valley. His work has previously appeared in the Shawangunk Review and Chronogram.