The Mattress

Passing the rubbish dump
I heard a voice amongst the beer
cans, wine bottles and other
household trash:

"They left me here to rot,
the blighters; I served them well,
never moaned and groaned like them
nor snored or grunted like a pig;
They burdened me with weight
day and night, sometimes using me
as a trampoline.
As soon as my springs protruded
I was discarded and dumped here;

There's a workshop on 33rd Street,
they could have patched me up
and given me more years
of rough and smooth,
reconditioned me, re-sprung me;
I miss the bedtime stories
the most."

I was always a sucker for a sad story,
I bungled him into the boot,
took him to 33rd Street:
they fixed him good.
I rest better now.

~Esmond Jones~