for Penny Cooper & Rena Rosenwasser

As sweet saddle to earth’s bucking curves, the much discussed bed.
Over eons, light years, mores, manners, the nonplussed bed.

The trouble with wedlock is there’s not enough wed and too
much lock. With fingered spin, tumblers crack open the lust bed.

The chain of wedlock is so heavy that it takes two to
carry it—sometimes three. Any wonder some distrust bed?

Marriage: a friendship recognized by the police. Civil
laws so say, whether they stand for an unjust…or just bed.

Rings are put on the finger of the lady and through the
nose of the gentleman. Animal husbandry. Thrust. Bed.

Courtship to marriage, as a very witty prologue to
a very dull play. Ah, swept into history’s dustbed.

A community consisting of a master, a mistress
and two slaves, making in all, two. With friction, we combust bed.

Marriage succeeds love as smoke does a flame. Sooty vapors
and dousing water—sssssssss—give patina to the rust bed.

Dread of loneliness is greater than fear of bondage, so
we pair-bond. Tweezers, clamps, nipple rings, ropes drag your bust bed.

The surest way to be alone is to get married. So
have women long felt, above all in the upper-crust bed.

The only adventure open to the cowardly. Rockfalls,
cave-ins, frostbite, swiftboating in an over-fussed bed.

Like paying an endless visit in your worst clothes. With all
the binding, chafing, rubbing and wear, we must adjust bed.

A formula chipped in stone. All tragedies end with death.
All comedies, marriage. The opposite of august, bed.

It’s so great to find that one special person you want to
annoy for the rest of your life…in the much disgust bed.

The most happy marriage I can picture would be the union
of a deaf man to a blind woman. Now there’s a robust bed!