In-Between

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?