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.
