The Balancing Act

I'm sleeping
precariously,

bed
stacked
on top
of
bed,

which has the sweet whiff of
fairytale about it,
don't you think?

In actual fact
it smells much worse

(on account of the shoes
piled up underneath?
Or the lurking odours
that couldn't be sucked up
even if I could be bothered
breaking out the vacuum cleaner?)

I should throw them away,
these pieces of a
past life
the wooden slats
that supported
someone else's dreams,

or give them away
for another to assemble,
lie on top of

I should do so much
with these hidden things

instead of piling them high
one on top of the other
out of sight beneath me
leaving me
teetering

a sleeping
circus act,
balancing
preposterously

night after night

bed
stacked
on top
of
bed

in danger of waking violently
and falling
down,
down,
down.