Summers clear as the water we forged through
have rushed on by,
chasing after the graffiti
at the end of the sewer
or drainpipe
or entrance into another world.
They have left me shrivelled,
dry,
and compelled to ask
what a child wants to know:

Do you remember our summers?
The ones that were worth storing
in a dry, waterproof box
to pull out and marvel over,
better than any lost relic;
no matter the weather
or the thunder our house emitted,
we’d slink away to the creek,
charging towards a light
that held more promise than
the rocks we left behind.

My question is not
“why did we crawl through the drainpipe,
or sewer,
or portal?”
my question is
“why did we ever stop?”