It just came to me; I realized.

I prefer my bed to be a nest,

Not the stiff discomfort, uninviting,

Totally tucked in and tight.

My room, an artist’s studio,

Tables covered in bits and pieces of stuff,

Plants, candles, a teapot, and cookies.

Not for anyone else, a bed,

Only for me in the afternoon,

Or me in the evening gloom.