“Where is here?”

Cutting cross,
as the crow,
'neath the buzz of
symmetrical electric
lines,
I am a child again;
my socks soaked
and my toes cold.
The gravel has froze
where I once
wrote my name,
kicking it up
between
second and third.

A man can leave
his home,
but his child
always follows;
a slippery shadow
caught 'neath
the icy surface
cracked cautiously
as he steps again,
forward.

narrative poem written on 11-26-2014 by: on mattkane.com
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