There is something strange about this bed,

Or it is in cahoots with my head.

Some wandering gypsy must have forgotten his curse.

For it matters not how weary mind and body might be,

As soon as my head and pillow greet

Eyes fly open and

Limbs wrestle one another,

While the bed lies on complacently.

Thoughts both somber and silly

Fight for reign in my brain . . .

What's up for tomorrow?

What's down the road?

The words that writing.

What rooms need tidying . . .

There is something truly strange about this bed

It either messes with or psychoanalyzes my head,

Making sure I scorn the night

And shun the light.

So if you see a gypsy

You might mention you of a bed

To be had for free!

Joanna Ballard - Oct. 28, 1989