Stomping Ground


I want to visit my old stomping grounds.

I want to see my road end-to-end and

run the distance in seconds.

I want to find those corners

I took too fast and

scrapped my skin.

I want to taste the water

by the creek

and spit it out for its foul taste.

I want to hide in the bushes

behind the houses that were marked

private property.

I want to find that

one block of cement

where we carved each of our initials.

I want to play all day to

build up that appetite

and come home to mom’s cooking.

I want all of this.

I want to go back home,

but I am home.

My stomping grounds are here,

but I can’t seem to retain those moments.


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