Type Dancing

WANDERLUST
By David Allen

It's a wonder my parents
didn’t get in trouble 
for letting me run free.
From as far back as I remember,
I did things that could have 
bought charges of child neglect
for allowing me to run wild.

I am the oldest of seven children 
and gladly surrendered the role
of mother's little helper
to my sister, two years younger, 
while I discovered the world. 

Trespassing was my usual crime.
Abandoned homes, factories, 
military bases, and the estates 
of Roaring Twenties millionaires,
decayed after the Depression.
They were my playground.

I never knew what I might find
Signs of a ghost?
Old books, photos?
Remains of animals?
Forgotten paintings?
Broken statues?
Stairways to the sky?

I once found the blackened
remainder of a forgotten pie
in an old wood oven.
In a mildewed closet,
I discovered a half-filled diary
that ended with a huge 
hand-drawn exclamation point.
In a flooded factory basement
I used a wooden door as a raft.

I was lucky no one
ever confronted me
as I sought what remained 
when life moved on 
to other structures
and other worlds.