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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1228430
by Fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Environment · #1228430
For a Writer's Cramp
At the far end of the garden, way beyond the swing,
Past all of mom’s begonias and dad’s horseshoe rings,
The yard began a gentle slope with several maple trees
And one of them, the last in line, was the one for me.
The very last one was perfect to climb--
My castle, my fort, where I spent lots of time.

Beyond this though, I couldn’t go
I must never go near the tracks.
I never could know when a train would go
And so I always stayed well back.

I was up in my fort one afternoon
School was just out, so I think it was June
I’d just turned around, put the sun on my back
When I saw a girl beyond the track.
We were about the same age; I thought
Wanted to go with her, but knew I’d be caught.

So I yelled a hello and she answered me,
And said she was eight. The same as me!
Could I come over? She then called back
She wasn’t allowed to cross the track.
Neither could I, but we wanted to play
So we yelled back and forth the rest of the day.

I thought about something as I lay in bed,
Something someone once had said
It implied something bad or perhaps someone poor
As I said, I wasn’t quite sure.

It hadn’t mattered to me before
But now I wondered, as I lay on my back
Which side WAS
The wrong side of the track?
© Copyright 2007 Fyn (fyndorian at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1228430