Unmade Bed

Deep-seated frowns
Wrinkle the youngest brow
I mean young, less than two
That deep-seated frown
Just prior to pushing away
Another bowl of tasteless rusks

I cannot trace the trajectory
From the child to the adult
Booking into a plush hotel
But here, the frown returns
I stand still, sighing at the cocoon
That has swallowed my debit card

Here, I am sluiced down a river of time
Double de-clutched into reverse
Hard rammed; suddenly
I am five, or four once more
Clamped in a bed tight with sheets,
Blankets, eiderdowns…no duvet

A five-star constriction,
Bound, mummified and squeezed
Between cold white sheets
Barely daring to inflict a crumple or a crease
As if doing so would
Incur the wrath of an outside agency

This will not do!
And, clutching the folded coverings
I erupt, and tear it all away,
And dance on its grave
Like the warrior I am, ha!
Man shall not live by counterpane alone…

Now the lines creasing my skin
Stretched ever more loosely
Across my facial features
Are mostly from smiles,
Gone are the days of unmade beds
Perfection takes approximately 9 seconds