Chameth.com

Sleeping in
a narrow
bed, no
room to
turn no
room to
spread.
For my old, much wider, bed I yearn.
As night
carries
on, it
feels
sma-
ller
and
sm-
al-
ler
turning sleep into
some kind of torture.

The conceit here is fairly obvious, but the idea amused me: the poem is forced into a narrow format for the most part, with the “smaller and smaller” section becoming smaller and smaller. If it’s not displayed in a monospace font then the line lengths don’t work as well, which is mildly annoying.