The Mustard Plateau

Dust Mites sashay through the filthy linens on my bed
devouring discarded pieces of me,
consuming what I no longer need.
I stand at the foot of this slab of contemplation
and I wonder.
Who will change these soiled sheets of shame?
Who will wash out these sweat rings forged in the foundries of my daily toil.
This self-made shroud of Turin.
Who will remove the pillowcases and replace them with fresh ones?
What will be the cost?
Will I need to put out?
Go downstairs?
Paint a house?
Say "I love you"?
What will be the price for this new place to lie;
This new place to lay,
soft place to sweat,
Fresh place to rise erect.
-Sky
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