XLV. Bed-Time Epistle

To my blanket beside me,
*******I don't mean to lead you on
*******by sitting you afresh upon my sheets
*******every morning, like your services will be called upon that night.

*******But I'm supposed to be an adult now,
*******and while I give little enough account for my own maturity,
*******I have heard that it's the little things that make a difference.
*******And making my bed is a really little thing.

*******I know this will be hard for you to understand,
*******Not least because you're a blanket, and therefore
******(Friends are honest with each other)
*******Ill-equipped for understanding,
*******But also because
******(You might say, if you could or cared)
**************The drop from the bed to the floor
*********************is a little thing, which
****************************Makes a difference.

*******"And there is, it seems, a certain malice
**************in your predictable caprice--
*******Set me up, just to knock me down,"
******(You'd quip, if you weren't merely a blanket,
**************And you felt angry with me.)

*******But to be completely fair,
*******The mercury's too high for you,
*******Too humid, hot apocalyptic,
**************Like leather-wrapped sauna pews
*******And this really isn't your shining hour.

*******I'm not breaking up with you, or keeping you on the hook
*******I'm just waiting for the earth to turn
**************For the leaves on the trees to catch fire
**************And burn the Summer heat away

**************For the sun to settle down
**************for the air to thicken up

*******I'll call you when I need you, at year's end
*******Because
******(As you'd appreciate, if you weren't just a blanket)
*******You're everything I need in an ill-weather friend.

P.s. When you writhe against me,
Like a downy white worm,
I get a little creeped out.