the cellar bed

you slept, or rather you
dozed on the cold slab
of a futon
in the cellar of her
split level home.
it was deep in the woods.
but not deep enough
to not see the rusted stove
and washing machine
in the neighbor's yard.
sometimes a dog would
bark, sometimes a dog
would shriek in pain
after barking.
but you lay there in
the cold night,
a numbed fish on ice,
head tilted on the hard rock
bed beside the saddle
and hair blanket, the stacks
of discarded clothes
and magazines.
you shivered in your aloneness.
far from home, as far
from love and affection
as you had ever been.
and in the morning you would
see the red balloon
face of the boy next door
jumping madly on
his trampoline, staring
with crazed blue eyes
and tombstone teeth
into the room
where you could never sleep.