Poem for Friday

Bed
By Linda Pastan

Shaken by dreams, sometimes
I don't know which bed I'm in
in the long procession of beds that move
like Saints' Day floats before my eyes.

Look! There's the cradle;
there's the child's narrow bed—
and beyond a doorway arched
like a church, the father and mother
breathing out their small allotment of breath.

And there's the oak four poster
where I burned all night, thinking
of the boy who had begged for hours
but wasn't allowed
between the austere sheets.

All beds are the same bed. Made fresh
each morning, they rise on their springs like loaves of bread
only to be torn apart again each night:
our futon; that Austrian featherbed; the pullman berth
that rocked us together like unborn twins.

When you first bedded me in a tangle
of silks and soft skin, I learned in my bones
of bedrock and flower beds. Years later
I know why clouds outside an airplane window comfort us
and why our youngest son embraced his mattress once
not as if it were a lover but simply itself
and said: I love you bed.
I know why they put pillows in coffins.
I know why sleep is the secret life
we hide all day, and I know where we hide it.

--------

Got up early with my son, bought my penguin a cityscape and a college, which was the most successful part of my day. Went clothes shopping with my mother, who bought me a belt that will go very well with a dress I already own since I failed at finding a new dress; then we went to Lebanese Taverna for lunch. And I spent the rest of the day being furious at Westboro Baptist, whose hatemongers are planning to protest against my synagogue on Friday, then being furious at the synagogue itself, because it's such a massive fire-them-through place that people insist on marking territory over things like celebration photography. Some days I'm so sorry I didn't raise my kids heretical pagan-leaning non-congregational Jews like me.

I liked Smallville though once again things are getting dorky-convoluted and they're going to have to spend half a season untangling it; I really love Tess when she's actually around and conspiring (and refusing to fall for Oliver's manipulative charms), and I love Oliver and Clark constantly reassuring each other that they can count on each other while they're both lying to each other and omitting great big bits of information. For a while I was thrilled with where they were going with Chloe, too, except...well, it's a spoiler, but not worth cutting so I just won't talk about it anymore.


Speaking of Superman, here's the Daily Planet building contains Superman collectibles at Geppi's Entertainment Museum in Baltimore.


Naturally, there are also comics.


I love that JFK shares shelf space with Spock, The Incredible Hulk, and Iron Man.


Though I'm not sure what to make of Jackie Gleason being put on the same level as Jackie Robinson. C'mon, really?


Other rooms track television culture from Howdy Doody...


...through the explosion of Star Trek and its marketing.


And, of course, there are rock star collectibles from Elvis to the Beatles to the Bee Gees to...well, this.


And here's one more look at the Barbie exhibit. (I own both of these dolls and the rest of the Hollywood Movie Star collection, so I am partial to them.)