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Those Summer Days MAG
Last night I fell asleep
 on the couch and woke up
 on the couch.
 I remember when I would fall asleep 
 on the couch
 or on the floor, and Dad
 would scoop me up and take me
 to my room, and I would wake up –
 as if by magic – in my own bed.
 I remember when
 we had a treehouse
 in the backyard,
 and Ian and I and the neighbor's sons
 would play pirates and catch tadpoles
 and eat thistles in the thick
 summer heat.
 That old tree is bare now.
 The wooden plank that was our fort,
 our pirate ship,
 our stage for fantasy,
 rotted away to nothing but
 splinters.
 I used to lie on my dad's truck and count 
 the stars
 and twist fallen leaves into crowns,
 or pretend to be a racecar driver, 
 and dream of the day
 I would get my own car.
 I get in my car to go to work, 
 remembering how
 I used to play on my parents' cars,
 and I
 stop –
 back up,
 climb onto the hood of my Kia,
 lie on my back,
 and stare up at the drifting clouds.
 I smile at them
 and they smile at me, and I ask myself,
 “Why did I ever want to grow up?”

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