It needs to be said.
There were regular close encounters
in the night. If I turned my head
to the right, there was a window, a desk,
a Coca-Cola mirror, a pastoral neighbor,
sleeping well I presumed.
Everything was (well) right.
If I turned my head to the left,
there was a darkened door. And a
clown poster: God knows.
So it was observance not to say anything,
but to push away what’s left
with the back of my thighs,
and my 8-year-old back which stiffened
in this ritualistic bedtime plight.
28: Real Toads