This is from the beds that could not contend,
could not make it in this world,
where their broken frames
allowed mattress to tumble
to earth, like the dropping
of weights from barbells
lifted by those showing power,
preening and posing
to the gods of the universe,
their veins rivers of struggle,
feet perched upon triangular soles
that prop fragile dreams.

These slats are cradles blessed
by hope, but they weaken
with carelessness, abandoned
only when those cobwebs
begin, dust settling upon
polished surfaces and forming
a coat of loss, molecules
torn from passing ships
to remain forever moored.