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
this makes me nostalgic
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