We’ve learned about the sanctity of bed:
no arguments, no full stomachs, no spinning, no smoking, no eating crackers, no horse heads
I’m watching someone make theirs impossibly on a Muni bus stop seating device. The transit authority approved the design: vertical poles holding a 10×4 inch slab on a spit. You position the slab horizontally before you put your ass on it, then use your feet to keep from falling off of it while the bus never comes. This is to prevent people like this one from taking up the uncomfortable bench when fare-paying Muni riders need it most: Never. They have designed a seat no one can sit on, thereby decisively excluding the least favorite people from sitting on them.
Resourceful, likely strong and well-balanced, this one uses the swivel seat spits for his elevated slumbers. I can’t stand the thought of him strung out like this, there’s a perfectely serviceable doorway on the other side of this bus stop that he did not select, so I imagine he’s acting out his past life as a samurai: alone, capable, on the edge.
Where did you sleep? On the side of the hill in a shelf I dug out with my hands, the day hike gone rather awry. Behind the wheel of the van, according to this ditch. In my father’s recliner, waiting for the evil to leave my room down the hall. On my feet in the emergency room, making deals with higher powers. In the sand at the foot of the dunes, pretending to be Achilleus waiting for wind.
Wake up. Wake up.
Bus coming.