Making the Bed

On my bed is a colorful quilt, Not hand-made – it came from the store. Each morning I lay it out, always the same; It’s so simple, it’s not like a chore. It has to be facing the way that I like, Connecting green squares on the top. The sides must be even and thus all around, It will hang with the perfect-length drop. The pillows are fluffed, each one touching the next, And are topped with a match-the-quilt sham. If you enter the room and expect something less, Then you really don’t know who I am. Unless – and it is an occurrence so rare, There must be a good explanation – My husband has made the bed, then you will note It seems lacking in coordination. The top of the quilt’s where the bottom should be; The pillows are huddled behind it. The shams block the headboard and there is my spouse, Never suspecting I’d mind it. To him, it looks great, though of course not the same, But he claims he was being inventive; While I like things to be just the way that I like – I admit that I’m ****-retentive. How you’re wired determines your preferences here; I’m fanatic ‘bout how my bed’s looking. So I told my husband, just leave it to me, And stick to your forte, the cooking!