Blair Woods

From the oozing drainage tunnel

to the frayed hemp rope swing

this was home.

The blast of the quarry

was just over the tracks,

and when mom made

her cigarettes scarce

there were hollow stemmed weeds

to smoke.

But how I missed the menthol,

that minty blast of mind numbing nicotine

that brought a tingle to my lips

and a rush of manliness

to my pre-pubescent mind.

But this isn't about nicotine,

or menthol,

or manliness,

it's about the impious destruction

of childhood's hollowed ground.

I mourn for my lost pocket of sanity,

a sacrifice to the great god Progress

who rode in on highway 67.

Not much to speak of,

this sickly gaggle of trees

huddled around a pool of rainwater,

but it was mine.

Home to countless schemes,

firecracker mountain,

and now, pavement.