There are the seven stages of man,
And there are the times you’ve built beds.
When you’re in your twenties,
Have a nineteen year old girlfriend,
Who moves out of her mom’s
Is a very unique circumstance.
Sure you’ve been dating for two years,
Obligated to help,
But you’re leaving.
You’re moving off,
She’s moving on,
“I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”
And it’s true.
And you find yourself,
Holding an allen key;
Surrounded by pine,
And 32 pages of
Worldless instructions:
“Welcome to you’re new Tarva Bed!”

She moves books
You scratch
your head
You drink tea, or beer.
You have sex on the floor:
Scratch our head some more,
Holding you tighter than you’ve ever been held
You think a solemn
An completely unoriginal thought:
Things end.
This bed isn’t for you
You won’t know it.
It’s a foundation for a home
You won’t even visit.

The leaves fall
Ground chills
And suddenly it’s summer.
The summer of your life…
Here you are
Forty One
A child on the way
Another far away
It’s a perfect time to build.
We fight about paint,
Space and time;
Books and war;
and everything that falls in the garbage disposal.
The trees look different
And there is a pain from bending over
But the allen key hasn’t changed a bit,
Thirty two pages of
Worldless instructions.
Every turn of the screw
Tightening a bolt
“You will sleep well, my dear.
For I have brought you to this world,
And I will protect you from darkness.”

It’s not following directions anymore:
There’s staining to consider
Polyurethane,
Mid Century verses Industrial
Space, time, and
The times you’ve built beds.