Alone on our old checked couch—
it was black and off-white, smoke-yellowed—
in the basement TV room, I digested

the announcer’s voice as something
I should come to know, once I was older.
Who wouldn’t want to tiptoe close

to the edge of night? Who doesn’t want
a little manageable terror? It’s why
I tossed and turned for many nights,

pretending that a scary episode of Scooby Doo
was playing on the wall, on one side of my bed.
Did I want to watch it? I did, and I didn’t.

I do, and I don’t. Many nights, now,
I find it—the edge, the side
I want to be on.