The Double Bed
was plain oak, suiting
the average couple
my parents were.
When they married it went
with them to a remote
Taranaki bush school house,
followed them to Auckland
to a small suburban house,
a short drive from his work.
Here it dawned on them
that childlessness
seemed to be their fate.
They adopted a girl child,
loved her as their own.
Soon after, I was conceived,
delivered, installed: the boy.
Sister and I shared a room -
she sang; soon I sang along.
There were more moves,
south-east, south-west,
south. The bed came too.
Reinstalled in that Auckland
suburb, the loyal furniture
served on, the oak table,
the piano (Canadian) also oak.
As before, the double bed
dominated the small bedroom.
In auntie Bess's house once
we played with cards marked
for fortune-telling.
Mum, what is Marriage Bed?
Her answer threw no light.
Something kept from kids.
We came home from school
one day to find a change:
the double bed had gone,
replaced by two single beds,
not even side by side.
'We'll both sleep better.'
It sounded unconvincing.
Dad came home late, later,
went to bed quiet, quieter.
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