—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday, br And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday— br When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed, br Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon br Looking off down the long street br To nowhere, br Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation br And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why? br And if-Monday-never-had-to-come— br When you have forgotten that, I say, br And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell, br And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang; br And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner, br That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner br To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles br Or chicken and rice br And salad and rye bread and tea br And chocolate chip cookies— br I say, when you have forgotten that, br When you have forgotten my little presentiment br That the war would be over before they got to you; br And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed, br And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end br Bright bedclothes, br Then gently folded into each other— br When you have, I say, forgotten all that, br Then you may tell, br Then I may believe br You have forgotten me well.