the rumble of threatened lightning
over the hill, there; probably miles away
even further than Monroeville, maybe
--suggested adventure to my childish ears.
as if the storm would send us all back
to a time of sticks and sneaking in the woods,
even the adults, freed of their watches.
but now some nights i am the rumble itself
demanding obedience, performance,
why did you think eight times four was forty-two?
a slave to time, to my phone, to it's-past-bedtime
--how could i betray myself thus
when part of me is still in the Shelton's driveway
eight years old, hearing thunder, thinking
maybe we'll get to live in the woods now.
january 2023
