Night

I am seven visiting
Grandma and Grandpa
In the house on North
Anna Street and sent to
Bed in the back bedroom
Where the hand-drawn
Palm tree on a tropic island
Hangs on the wall by the bed.
The room is strange to me
And I am wide awake listening
To snippets of conversation
From the grown-ups and
Savoring the scents of the
Coal-burning heater, the kitchen
Odors of bacon and roasted
Meats mingled with the musty
Smell of quilts and pillow covers.
I lie under the covers listening to
The train whistles and bump of
Railcars sided and added by
The lumber yard across the
Street made closer by scents
Of fresh-cut lumber.
I lie for what seems like hours
Listening to the trains and
Scenting the night outside
Though at seven years old
I probably fell to sleep
Within several minutes
Safe and sound in
Grandma’s house.