The pond at the end of Clearview Street
wasn’t much of a pond, really.
More of a puddle.
A big puddle.

A big, scary puddle that I vaguely recall
as the place where only boys could go.

A low spot in an otherwise
flat
landscape,
featureless fields of rice
and cotton mouths.

In dreams I find the pond
nearby lots empty.
houses gone that once were
vibrant with other lives.

I want to walk their path,
yet, I am bound to the street.
a kid imprisoned by such
strange
fate.

Flood covered hooves,
buckets of rain,
deluge for days
drained
all
too
sowly

across saturated clay.

Still, they stay.

They stay
and say
“It was a great place.”