Two decades old, twice its expected life,  
a resident of seven apartments –
the first bed I ever purchased myself
soon after graduating college –

it is no more a vessel that supports, 
coils worn out under strain of body weight
alternating between tranquil slumber
and the restless sprawl of insomnia. 

Creaks follow trembles when I recline
on this shabby barge drifting into sleep’s waters,
metal crossbar warped from years of impact –
nocturnal frolics, our toddler’s jumping –

          glad at last to replace it with a frame
          whose wood slats like whale ribs underlie me.