All the beds

I have been thinking about all the beds I have slept in.    

June 18-Oct 3: 41 away + 50 “home” = 91

Rising from the depths

of the pillow,

ensconced in a cocoon of white—

where am I?

Where is this bed?

Is it banked on a wall of brick?

Is there light filling the air

from the windows of my loft?

Do I hear fire truck sirens?

Or, nestled quietly,

is light seeping through my shutters;

is a fan whispering quietly overhead;

are happy doggies barking somewhere outside?

Do I hear an ambulance whaling?

Am I home or away?

Is it hotel room dark?

If so, is it in Rochester,

Rome or Bellagio?

Perhaps Nashville or Asheville.

Is it a cabin? Or a house?

Is it a twin or a queen?

Am I awake or asleep?

Is it a dream? Should I rouse?

Or when I open my eyes,

will I see the little window

showing me a bit of roof

and Norway spruce?

I have been so many places

these last 3 months.

I might as well have been

a musician on tour.

How long have I been asleep?

Evidently, not long enough.

This cozy bed is home.

I am staying right here.