By Ray Bradbury
Attics are awful and lovely.
You know what I mean?
Basements are low, dank, and darksome,
Halloween’s buried there;
The air of the earth
Simmers slowly, gives rise
To nightmares at midnight,
The size of its shadows is awesome.
And in-between?
The house that we live in,
Sane, boring and plain,
Pictures hung straight on walls,
Here nothing appalls,
The rugs if they misbehave,
Are twice taken out and beaten.
Meals are eaten three times a day
In a room where our dining,
And occasional wining with poker
With loud uncles who laugh
When the joker is played,
Is all staid; sound and clean.
In-between, where we live, in-between,
A boy could go mad.
So on sad days in autumn,
He takes his dry soul
Down the hole in the dark
Or, pure lark on the fly,
Climbs to attic and sky,
Where the wind leans all year,
And pure fear is the stuff
That roams gardens of dust
And web, where the spider,
Soft glider of nerves,
Serves a fly for dessert
Then back down to the scene
Where the green salad waits
On dumb dining room plates
And nice parents whose talk
Is a chalk-screech on board.
Where the lands of the Lord
Are a Sunday morn chat
That can flatten the mind
And sift dust in the ear
Year on year. No wildness. No joy.
No place for a boy.
Attic, yes! Basement, sure!
There the terror is pure.
There an All Hallows grave
Can save souls that might smother
From calm dad or sweet mother.
Up! Down! That’s the scene!
But---In-between?
Oh my gosh. In-between?
Know what I mean?