It happened one lone summer --
consumed us like crazy --
kids on the street with chalk
and wax-filled bottle caps,
sliding our pieces along the ragged board
on rough pavement.
We'd play like that for hours,
our fingers all torn and bloody
from friction with tar, but determined
to make our way to the center square,
to knock, with force, our opponent out
of the whole game.
And then it was gone, a disappearing act,
except for this remembering, of summer
on the streets, the game of Skully, and
how the world of bottle caps and dripping wax
and imaginative play in the neighborhood
for who remembers bottle caps, anymore, anyway?
Kevin Hodgson, for GloPoWriMo 2017