BED

GINA GREGA

It’s hard to sleep
In somone else’s bed.
The mattress squeaks
And the springs bulge.
Outside, you hear more
Or less cars
Than you are used to.
There are funny scratches
At the window
Of a house
Whose rooms you do not feel
At home in.
The moon becomes a projector
Showing silent horror movies
Of shadows against the walls.
You tremble beside the shape
Next to you, a maybe-monster
Beneath the blankets
Who could kill you in the night
Or worse,
Say they are in love.