How many times in four years
have you flipped the flabby futon
In a futile attempt to extract
the fallow fat from your lower back?
Says he’s smothered by your hips
yet he wallows in them,
having absorbed much marsh
waiting for your eventual mothering.
flinging up bits of swamp.
often I wake sweaty,
dreaming of Squornshellous Zeta
on a mattress I’m sure is named Zem.