I read an article about New York’s hidden apartments. All of sudden I remembered the secret rooms we built as children out of nothing but a sheet and kitchen chairs.
We conjured worlds from a sheet
splayed white across green
kitchen chairs. Mama gave
over the house to our constructions.
The space, under cover, between
chairs doubled for living rooms
banquet halls, the inside of ships
on high seas or outer space.
We scrambled into hatches
at the flap of fabric, portals
gaped at the fingers of wind
from an open screen door.
Time dripped through our play.
Day slid from afternoon into
evening. One child called for
then all of us ended our work.
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