CROWDED

The thoughts I had thought the night before

Were waiting for me in my bed, insisting

I think them again. They had apparently

Spent the entire day just lying about

And looked dissipated. One of them

Was smoking a fake meerschaum pipe

That I’d thrown away in 1987. Another,

Wore a preposterous hat, a cross somehow

Between a floppy musketeer sort of thing

And the odd felt crown Jughead wears

To go careening down a Riverdale street

In a bathtub while Archie attempts to steer.

Then there was the one who insisted

She had been personally brushed aside

By Catherine the Great and had spent

Three years trapped in an unfinished dream

Of the beautiful Princess Dashkova. 

I found this awkward as I had invited

A crowd of much higher-class thoughts

To join me. (One of them was almost new;

The rest could pass for new in a kindly light)

They could not be put off; we all crowded in.

I got little sleep; my head never found the pillow.

When I finally dozed I was poked awake

By the idea with a hat; he and the Russian thought

(I considered her accent a little exaggerated, myself)

Were in love and wished me, as captain of the bed,

To marry them. The other thoughts were members

Of the wedding party. Some of them had swords

(Which fact rather worries me) and made an alley

For the bride and groom. All of them

Have gone along on the honeymoon leaving me

Completely thoughtless. Worse, they’ve taken

Half the covers and the pillow with them.