The small room with a wooly mammoth size bed
What my in-laws bought, a whole 8 by 8 feet

Good for my dinosaur bones. I look around
And I see cobwebs in the corners of walls, which my wife

Brushes off with the lavender broom and dirt
Near the bed poles that my wife sweeps out

And this room has books from a few contemporary poets
And piled up knowledge for the inquisitive mind

My wife, just like a Mexican maid or hired help
Starts work early to keep it sparkling clean

And the only reason I want the bedroom clean is to make
It a plush hotel room and not a cheap motel

To make love. And the pale geckos watch us on bed
Talking one moment, lip-boxing the next

As we make something sweeter than honey
And thicker than molasses, calling that a contact sport.

And our bedroom has a few torn lubricant packets
No spills of biological nuke and bills from Keels

And everything in my room is movable
Bedsheets, pillow covers and old hole-filled socks

Except for a giant five-toed sloth lazing on a mattress
On a Saturday morning, as if the mammoth bed

Is a protected wild-life reserve in Peru
As I blame my in-laws for the hedonistic comfort at home

And this bed is why we don’t make love often enough
Even the prolific rabbits come to sleep here.

It seems sloth is my deadly sin
And making love is my redemption.


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