“Sleeping”

by Raymond Carver

He slept on his hands.

On a rock.

On his feet.

On someone else’s feet.

He slept on buses, trains, in airplanes.

Slept on duty.

Slept beside the road.

Slept on a sack of apples.

He slept in a pay toilet.

In the Super Dome.

Slept in a Jaguar, and in the back of a pickup.

Slept in theaters.

In jail.

On boats.

He slept in line shacks and, once, in a castle.

Slept in the rain.

In blistering sun he slept.

On horseback.

He slept in chairs, churches, in fancy hotels.

He slept under strange roofs all his life.

Now he sleeps under the earth.

Sleeps on and on.

Like an old king.