Makeshift Bed by Joseph Buehler

When I was in my early teens I slept on a 
makeshift bed (a couch actually) that sat on
the small screened-in front porch of our
farmhouse in Michigan. I only slept there
a few times.

A farm road fronted the porch and occasional 
cars or trucks passed by. Did the drivers notice
me when I arose from the couch early in the
mornings clothed in pajamas or a shirt and pants?
I didn’t much care if they did or didn’t.

Sometimes a spring rain fell softly outside; 
sometimes a gentle breeze blew through the
screen and touched my face.

That was a long long time ago in an age of innocence. 

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