Certain nights
When the pillow fit just right under my neck,
When the flashlight tucked under my arm stayed tucked,
The novel on my knees stayed propped up
And my parents had somebody over,
When the world was well-bred
And the heroine was young, and the moon hung yellow
And perfectly round on the page that explained
What everything meant:
Then it was heaven on the second floor,
In the corner bedroom, in the one twin bed,
Under the bedspread and the blankets and the pure
One hundred percent cotton sheet
Made in this country before the war.
Plots thickened. They don’t do that anymore.
Character lived. In the ventilated air
Their voices could almost be heard
Downstairs, talking things over.
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