“Oh, that’s to die for,” my friend cooed.
Perhaps only women of a certain age
Can appreciate a luxurious bed jacket,
Soft as the undercoat a mother rabbit uses to line her nest.
To be gently sedated and deliver my lovely baby.
For the next ten days, I will sit up in my hospital bed
Wearing my soft, ivory colored bed jacket, and
Receive the congratulations of my visitors.
Oh, wait, that was in the 1940’s and I am seventy years old.
No new babies on my horizon, and, anyway, they kick you out of the hospital after 24 hours.
Well, then, perhaps I will ring for my maid and
Sit in my bed jacket, propped up with pillows,
Thanking Baxter as she places my breakfast tray across my coverlet.
I’ll murmur to my husband, Lord So-and-So,
“Darling, don’t you have time for a cup of tea?”
Oh, wait, that was in the 1920’s in another country and another world.
Well, no matter, I can still wear my bed jacket as I read Jane Austen on my Kindle and check for posts on Face Book.
I have the best of all worlds.