Beds Poem by Sonny Rainshine

So much is about beds.
My father’s sickbed
became his deathbed.

When I had my appendix out,
I heard the nurse’s new name for me:
Bed Number Two.

My roommate, Bed Number One,
complained unceasingly about
his assigned bed and wanted mine.

Until I was seven
I wet my bed. My brother said
I did in on purpose.

Even when we fall in love,
what do we do?
We go to bed.

My mother said:
You made your bed,
now lie in it.

Then she said:
Life is no bed
of roses, ole pal.

Beds, then,
are nothing but trouble.
When it gets warm
maybe I’ll sleep on the grass.