by Samuel Swauger

I haven’t forgotten what we were like then,
when I couldn’t see over the kitchen table
and sunbathed slides left burns on my legs.
We never thought about the discomfort, it happened
and off we ran with our make-believe soldiers.

It was instinct to take your hands and
rub chalk on the asphalt together,
laying on the rocky forgeries
of a Dr. Seuss book and
squinting at the animals in the clouds.

Our school has long since been derelict.
The parking lot is lone and level now,
eroded to graphite hues.
At some point I learned to hesitate
and grew taller than my mother. 


[Samuel Swauger is a poet from Baltimore, Maryland. His work appears in Third Wednesday, Tilde, and the Front Porch Review. His website is, and his Twitter is @samuelswauger.]