(1950’s)
The bungalow smells heavy of chest rub,
instant chicken noodle soup
I lay drowsy in the distant
clattering sounds of mommy
scrubbing breakfast plates,
the quiet peace of daddy
thankfully gone until six
No Benedictine nuns to scold me,
slap my opened palms
with twelve inch rulers,
to call my curiosity sinful
A safe morning in flannel pajamas,
comfy blanket on my chest and legs,
I browse picture books of knights,
witches, ogres and talking animals
Buffalo Bob, Mayor Phineas T. Bluster,
Mr. Greenjeans and Clarabell,
secretly armed with hydrogen bombs,
josh side by side in beaming faces
on the fuzzy screen behind
a freckled, red headed dummy
with an insane wooden grin
No Korean War yet, no missile crisis,
Vietnam, Islamic State, beheadings,
a peaceful morning with sun and snow
gleaming through the windows,
Hopalong Cassidy forty-five’s
for story time,
and alone with mommy
before daddy and the whole world
goes sick in the head