Memory Asleep

The varnished columns are worn
where my hands have rested

in the drifting moments before sleep.

It’s been my secret cave,
extended with clothespins and sheets,
tea party tent and villain’s lair.

It seemed like such a clever place to hide.

It’s heard me laugh,
felt me cry,

shared me with Lydia, Monkey, Sam.

I still bruise my shins on the footboard;
and the old mattress now sags to one side.

It used to be my Father’s bed,
but now I see it just as mine.