shopping for a new mattress

i go

into the mattress

store

with my new girlfriend Clarissa,

a dancer

at the Gentlemen's Club

next to the dry

cleaners

and Japanese Steak House.

she's much more

experienced

with mattresses than i am

despite

our forty-seven year

age difference.

but i need a new mattress,

the old one

is sagging,

and the springs are busted.

i bought it three wives ago.

the nine-inch bolts have

come loose from

the scarred

headboard,

which is splintered and charred

from the time it caught fire

because of a pyromaniac

named Marsha.

it's so old there are fondue

stains on it

and dried residue

from a crockpot stew.

she hops

on each mattress, row

after row

in her glittery spandex dress

and go go boots,

which

draws

a crowd at the big window

out front.

the manager of the store opens

a beer

and lights a cigarette,

sitting on his

makeshift desk.

take your time, he says, no

rush here,

then dims the light and puts

on some music.

finally Clarissa announces

in her melodic voice.

this is the one.

she bounces up and down on

it like a trampoline,

then does a cartwheel

to dismount.

it's king-size

with handles and side bars

so that you don't roll off.

charge it, i tell the manager

and throw it onto the roof

of the car.

tomorrow we're going shopping

for a six person Jacuzzis

to put on the deck

in the back yard.

she's invited all her dancing

friends over.