Pissing the bed
(That’s the way the phrase turns,
When you become too old to “wet”
“You pissed the bed again!”)
Is a sense of complete relief
Followed by cold deep shame.
It’s not unlike a wet dream.
(Or maybe that’s me;
My first was about fucking a stuffed bunny,
And as I crept out for a change of sheets,
I was pretty sure everyone knew what I was dreaming about)
For a while I wore battery operated underwear,
That woke the house whenever they got damp.
I think that’s called averson therapy.
Eventually I learned not to piss the bed,
Not to fall out of the bed,
Not to leave the bed,
After the kid down the block,
That I traded my Star Wars action figures to,
That I desperately wanted to like me,
Ran to tell everyone.
Including that red-headed set of twins a block down,
Whose parents hated me.
Who jumped with me from their back patio with umbrellas,
Pretending we could parachute,
Who held a mock marraige with him as the priest,
Her as the bride,
Me as the groom,
And a shared piece of bubble gum as the kiss.
Pissing the bed
Is a sense of complete relief
Followed by cold deep shame.
