Bare Back Magazine -

Bed Frame
by Michael Pane©

The umbrella
thrusts open and closed–

Lips made of gold,
you spill your soul,

into the palms.
Plummeting worthy

of a million cells.
The ringing of bells

in your ears– is
too much to handle.

You want it now,
and right– no early

You go all night–
building through

all the thunder,
and frightening ties.

The look in your eyes,
of relief–

as your machine
lets out steam.

Into the skies,
of a bed frame.

January 2021