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Climbing

The house we moved to when I was eight
became a kind of climbing gym for me,
a wispy boy without much weight
who loved exploring hidden places.
I climbed the brick lattice along the porch
up to the not quite sturdy roof
and along the ledges in secret search
of things unseen by anyone, at least
since the last painters hung from ladders,
hurrying to get home to wives and beers.
These discoveries were trivial matters
to anyone else, but not to me,
who delighted in knowing things
that others didn’t know.
Who ran long and sturdy strings
from window to window
for secret messages to pass along
at night when others thought I was asleep.
I climbed inside the house as well
up door frames and banisters, and deep
into the dim unfinished cobwebbed corners
of the attic, where I found my last and best
secret place—a hiding place, a fortress,
a watchtower, a solitary nest.
A starting place for climbing my way
through the rest of this mess
I a life.

Tomfoolery33 9 Apr 19
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