Never level, no matter
what the fill, that sink
hole sits still behind
the old Waskom Road house.
Appetite insatiable
like a pagan god
it was to the children
of three neighborhoods.
Fed by sacrifices, it took
everything from us, gobbling
at the teat of youth
from broken vases to rubbers.
A textbook too dense
for me to digest, without
which I felt sure I'd be
excused from math.
Green Lantern comic books
I stole then felt too guilty
to read even under covers
with my penlight.
Childhood indiscretions
its diet, the hole would have been
as happy with treasures
my Latin prize, Indian pennies.
Future archaeologists, we
speculated, someday would
plumb its depths, in subs
reveal no bottom there.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.