After fried chicken dinner, Grandpa, stoking the potbelly stove, told tales of the neighborhood’s rabid, elusive fox. Scared Kenny refused the outhouse at bedtime, held it in. The visitors, boy in the middle, piled into the saggy featherbed. Nightlong rain drummed on the tin roof. Gravity rolled the adults toward him. Elbowing for space, fitfully sleeping, Kenny dreamt of the wily fearsome fox.
Urbanite Kenneth likes sleeping with women, not men. But never calls one “foxy.”