EVERY MORNING

      by Nadine Kachur
 


I spread my bed in “Bloom of the Desert” sheets, 
double-flannel fresh, folded soft into corner tucks, 
then cast a cheap synthetic in a wide-angle arc,
over and falling into an open chute . . . a brief canopy . . . 
the waning gibbous descent of the gracefully dying 
deflates smooth and green on surrender to the pallet’s surface
shrouded in the camouflage of a reversible throw—
navy backed by gold, with moon, and stars, and suns,
an unsentimental universe of thread and too many pillows 
topped with stuffed animals named Orange and Pink, like mad 
hats of wild color on a flowerless meadow without sheep.