Joey the Soldier

I watch my nephew balance on the fence
one step, two step, careful
with the cracks to ensure he doesn't fall
stopping to yell to me, to make sure I'm captivated
by his act, of perfection, so compelling
with his toy rifle, he assumes the army position
"Meg, this is what soldiers do"

The cement hugging the bottom of the fence
suspended three feet above the grass, he imagines
is a drop of a thousand miles
he's on the edge of a helicopter, and I see
only that fence, so he must remind me to imagine.

I'm grinning, I remember
the days of clouded adult glares, their interest minimal
so I kept reminding them where I imagined to be:
(internally) remind them that I am a child, only a child
of great imagination and sound
I have not been molested by maturity, yet.

The wave of reality had not engulfed me
for in those days, it was always
low tide season, and
high tide reason.