The Wrong Beds (after Baudelaire)
Life is a hospital ward and the beds we are put in
are the ones we don’t want to be in.
We’d get better sooner if put over by the window
or by the radiator, one could suffer easier there.
At night, the impatient soul dreams of faraway places.
The Aegean: all marble and light. Whereupon
as flat as a map you could bask in the sun like
The pole: where, bathing in darkness, you could watch
the sparks from Hell reflected in a sky of ice
the soul could be happier anywhere than where it
happens to be.
Anywhere but here, we take our medicine daily
nod politely and grumble occasionally.
But it is out of our hands. Always the wrong place
We didn’t make our beds, but we lie in them.
(Roger McGough – b.1937)
“Blossom where you are planted.” (Anon)