A battered box truck,
peeling and worn,
a weary beast long beyond
its best days, pulls up
to our house to announce
we are getting a delivery today.
Out jumps a Spanish
Mutt and Jeff. Ritchie,
the short one, is the only
of the two who speaks English.
Yet, with the grace of Circa Du Soleil,
they navigate the new
enormous mattress into place,
weaving seamlessly
through the gaps we've made
in our history, as smiling, family
faces in frames cheer them on.
Then, having assembled
our new sanctuary, replete
with an electronic platform
(capable of zero gravity!),
they photograph everything
for posterity and their paycheck. 

Beds.
We lie in them, 
both in a physical and moral sense.
Evidently, they're a great place to die.
But mostly, we just
close our eyes in them.

I slip Ritchie
and his silent partner a ten.
Not much these days.
But such is the current price of dreams.