lying down side by side, arms rigid, figures on a tomb, powerless to imagine

I have a feeling that it is much worse
than shopping for a mattress at a mall,

of greater duration without question,
and there is no random pitchforking here,
no licking flames to fear,
only this cavernous store with its maze of bedding.

Yet wandering past the jovial kings,
the more sensible queens,
and the cheerless singles
no scarlet sheet will ever cover,

I am thinking of a passage from the Inferno,
which I could fully bring to mind
and recite in English or even Italian

if the salesman who has been following us—
a crumpled pack of Newports
visible in the pocket of his short sleeve shirt—
would stop insisting for a moment
that we test this one, then this softer one,

which we do by lying down side by side,
arms rigid, figures on a tomb,
powerless to imagine what it would be like

to sleep or love this way
under the punishing rows of fluorescent lights,
which Dante might have included
had he been able to lie on his back between us here today.

Billy Collins {1941- }, 'Hell' from Horoscopes for the Dead

This poem reminds me so much of the excursions that Chris and I once took, with the stated intention of finding a bed for him to buy. (See the original post about one of the days that we were out about it here.) It was sort of fun, sort of boring, sort of surreal - more than one clerk guessed that we were a couple, buying a bed together - and another thing about him that I really, really miss. He included me, and valued my opinion, and wanted me around. I miss that resounding friendship, and him, very much.