An Empty Place to Sleep

The comforter on the bed
Shortly to be abandoned
Has nothing to say for itself.

It is not an act of faith.
It is a dusty blanket
Over a somewhat battered frame.

Lives move through it, under it,
Bare flesh, microscopic mites,
The occasional insect.

It absorbs most of the light
That falls into it. It frays
Over months, years, and decades,

But on any given night
It’s as inert as inert
Can be. It’s a comforter,

A mass-manufactured thing.
Only acts of misplaced faith
Assign meaning to comfort.