I speak of the bedroom of fantasies

a fully-rested couple
wake and stretch luxuriously
on an ergonomic mattress in a spacious bed
the tenderness of morning sunlight upon them
no hollows beneath their eyes
they’re served coffee and croissants
that do not crumble
for there are no crumbs in this bed
here, children will never
jump the bedsprings flat
and a muddy-pawed pooch leaping up
is out of the question
and the sheets seem to change themselves
and the blanket never bunches up annoyingly
in one end of the duvet cover
and on the immaculate bedspread lies an open book
that no one will ever read
not a fly pesters here
nor do dust bunnies lie low
the couple that sleeps in this bed performs
regular and mutually-satisfying
intercourse
and also recently attended
tantric sex classes together
therefore there’s no point in adding
this bed’s occupants dream of no affairs
and not a single secret lover will ever
flop down here, heavens no
no one here snores in drunken stupor
and no one longs for old flames
that glows softly and sorely
in the endless pitch-black autumn night
everything works out anxiety-free
this same bedroom
with this sort of bed
is set up as a display model
in a shopping centre
so you might allow yourself to have it
because you deserve it
I say ʻshopping centreʼ
and I muse
people acquire lives and dreams here
believing they’re had cheaply
even two or more for the price of one
half-off
oh, the mall
so many pilgrims’ destination
horizon and paradise
(bedroom paradise
carpet paradise
curtain paradise
health paradise
candy paradise
plastic paradise)
because everything here
is so unworldly appealing and good
and the mall-goers
pass by the bedroom of fantasies
and consider their own bedrooms
as do I
tossing and turning beside me last night
was my feverish son
I didn’t actually notice the golden morning first thing
the windows were fogged up
all existence was, too
and dots danced before my eyes
but they also might have been the splatters of
Brilliant Green on the twelve-year-old wallpaper
from the winter when my kids got chickenpox
we stroll past the mall’s bedroom of fantasies
listen – the fantasies unravel like long-kept blankets
only one sleeps sweetly blithely
a vagrant in the nook of a hard bench
not thinking not fantasising once
until the security guard shoos him from paradise
and sleep is unfinished and all dreams and fantasies too
and the first frosts have arrived