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



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