Here is a cluttered bed
full of open books and sweatclothes
and a man, an unimportant man
who has pushed just enough aside to lie down.  

We’re not too concerned here
with his name, his face, or his history.
Let’s focus on the bed,
a former center of the universe.  

Back in the day this bed was a black hole.
Two would fall in and when they came out
they were transformed, they were somewhere else,
they were in a different time.  Now it’s what’s left

after a black hole collapses on itself. No one 
comes here except to sleep and when he wakes
it’s in exactly the same world and time
as when he laid down, and he hasn’t changed a bit.

In the scheme of things, the bed means little to him now.
Why are we wasting our time on this?  If there’s nothing
to see in the bed, on the bed, why speak of it at all?
He rubs his eyes and glares at us.  Nothing to see here,

get out you freaks, don’t make this into something.
If you want to mountain a molehill
take issue with these windows
which allow so much light to get in here and so early.  

His agitation is understandable yet ultimately
unimportant to us.  Look instead at the bed
covered in flung asides — button down shirts,
magazines, extra pillows.

It explains so much.  This was the former center
of the universe.  Everything came spinning toward
these long unwashed sheets, these broken springs.
That sad man, unimportant, not wanting anyone to see.