TO BED, TO BED—GOODNIGHT

I marched into the kitchen and dropped my suitcase onto the floor. It exploded. Dirty socks and frayed underwear sprung onto the appliances.

“I’m home,” I said.

“Where have you been?” asked my mother, blowing steam from a cup of coffee.

“Everywhere. I am a world traveler. I have seen everything and met everybody. A snake tried to bite me once. A cobra. I outran it. Now I’m back.”

“Where are you going?” asked my father, blowing steam from a cup of lentil soup.

“To bed, to bed—goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” said my parents as steam swallowed their heads and melted the cone of their throats . . .