by Diana Rosen
Hoisting the huge mattress upright
against the wall, I watch it curve
like a round-shoulder mourner
at the Wailing Wall, edges flattened,
untouched. Small cot-like bed in a
narrow rented room, no place for my
favorite matte blue bowl cradling
melting Jamaica Almond Fudge;
nowhere to spread out the Sunday
paper once perfectly lost in that old
king-sized bed. Laughter, wordplays,
silly signals of bonded twosome,
a vague sweet memory chilling
my heart as twilight softens the day.
Pragmatic me hunts thick wool socks
knotted into the covers like gophers
burrowed in sand. Unrolled, stretched,
covering aching toes, insurance against
night’s frigid darkness, innocent
inducement to safety, sleep, at last.
About the Author:
Diana Rosen is an essayist/poet/flash fiction writer published in more than 60 print and online journals and anthologies including Rattle, Tiferet Journal, Zingara Review, World Haiku Review, Ariel Chart, Soft Cartel, Dime Show Review, and forthcoming in The Pangolin Review, Poetic Diversity, The Jewish Writing Project, and Far Villages, an anthology from Black Lawrence Press.