All Other Beds But My Own

By Bethany Clarke

 

This Sunday

I woke up nested

on the cushions 

of my friend’s couch, 

a blanket knitted by her grandmother

to cover my cold toes

and all the way up

to my collar bone. 

 

The week before 

I fell asleep on a Van Gelder

bus that was nearly empty

and taking me home, 

My legs tired from running

around a town barely knew

but came to love.

 

Before that I slept

in the cupboard

under the stairs

of a hostel where

I slept next door

to a woman from New York

who sold belts. 

 

She made me green tea

with milk and sugar

so we talked about horses 

until I had to leave for 

another bed 

that wasn’t my own.  

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