August

We built forts in those days.
Club houses they were not
that name being to feminine
for such plotters as us.
Forts of the finest construction
wood from scrap heaps, old fences,
and the occasional 2x4 stolen
from a neighboring back yard.
Our turrets went up.
The walls of the nearest
oak, birch or maple
ten feet in the air.
We were indestructible
prepared to defend against
the hardiest invader
with sticks and squirt guns.
We elected our captains,
usually the oldest of us,
and set the watch
until it was time to go in.

The next morning it was gone,
torn down by the man down the street
who thought it was unsafe.
And it was.
It was a dream
unbridled

It was also his fear
that the next afternoon,
when we had grown up,
the ring of the ice cream bells
would call our attention
to a beautiful oak
in his back yard.
And this time
we wouldn't have to go in.