Flannel sheets, torn,
Cover the new mattress.
New wine requires new skins,
But not, I guess, do new mattresses.
Ripped fabric divides head from hat,
Round body from twiggy limb.
If flannel snowmen be feeling creatures too,
their fate be sorely grim.
My midnight companion grows cold.
Earl Grey is dreaming in peace,
As I wish I could be; but something vague
Keeps me awake, mumbling about flannel philosophy.
-RKP, Dec. ’12; revised Apr. ’14