But that was all right, because they were adults
who, of course, knew what to do.
(that’s a paradox, kiddies—
tell a nearby adult what it means.)
Meanwhile, back inside the house,
Grandmother and grandfather
were cackling like fried chicken
and doing the dance of the newly free.
Which meant they were running
around the house in their pajamas
laughing and crying at the same time,
and they were singing that song all of you know
you know, the one about the thing that—
Anyway, they were ready to enjoy all the fruits of
their thing—can’t remember: it’s on the tip of my tongue . . .
But all this dancing and singing had tired them out
so they lay down on their downy beds
and they both had the same dream:
They dreamed they were kids again
and they had really mean parents
who made them eat their supper leftovers
for breakfast, and wouldn’t let them have pets
and wouldn’t let them stay up late or
dance around in their pajamas
And do you know what?
They woke up, and they both began talking at once,
and what they said was
the worst horror would be
to have to be kids again.
And they felt so sorry for their
kids and their kids’ kids
actually, they soon forgot
all about that and started dancing
around the house in their pajamas.
And that’s the worst horror:
that you will forget what it is to be a child.
And you will . . .