Unmade

Sometimes I just want to leave that bed unmade all the time.

When I get up from a wondrously restful sleep,

ever-and-ever more rare, I think

"Don't change a thing! Don't get up...don't move...

don't move a sheet."

As if leaving things untouched

will preserve the greatness of the occurrence.

I walk through the house,

walk through the store,

walk through my mind

reflecting on what was.

More and more perfect it becomes,

 like spun gold from hay,

or the wonders of a night of drinking

 that becomes more impressive and fascinating

with every retelling,

ever-more regardless of the thing's true nature.

It can't be prepared for; there was no special planning

that went into the night when the bed was most

accommodating. Nothing extra done for the providing

of such nourishing nocturnal healthfulness. Probably

nothing extraordinary about the bed, the night,

my ass laid out there, the weather, or any other factor.

 It just happened. And upon happening,

my mind created a magical quality to it, and the

moment was preserved in

amber for eternity.

What is the point of a made bed, anyway?

To promote an idea of...what exactly?

Orderliness? Tidiness? Sophistication?

Blow chunks, Zelda; my give a rat's busted.

Preservation is a young man's game.

***