Bed Space: A Rare Commodity

I went to bed with three, maybe four poems running through my head. I awoke with nothing.
I knew I should have gotten my sleepy butt up and out of the bed and written them down as soon as they started playing themselves on continuous loop in my brain. I just knew it. But warm, cozy blankets, an uber snugly puppy, and the need to secure and maintain my precious, limited space in that bed overruled any desire to create prose.

Rare, precious space in the bed. How many married or domestically partnered couples have that worry, I wonder. Probably all. I like to imagine that in a perfect situation there is abundant bed space for all involved. No one has to wake the other up saying, "Hey! Your elbow is poking my kidney!" or "Your knee is killing my hip!"
No one has to push a 70 lb. puppy off of their legs in the middle of the night because they are afraid the lack of circulation is going to cause a blood clot and kill them in their sleep.
In a perfect world, no one snores either.

In my bed, a queen size bed no less, there is exactly approximately what seems like only 1 sq. ft. of space for me to crawl into once The Wifester and Sally Sue have sprawled out. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I'm simply stating the facts, as they are.

Bed space. It is rare and precious. I wouldn't trade space in that bed for a barrel of oil. For a 5 carat diamond. Or even for a magic unicorn!
Maybe I would for a private concert by Ani Difranco, but only if she promised to sing more of her older songs.