Tactile History

I walked past the fence, fingers traced every groove,

where weathered sharp edges lost grace, yet still prove.

A corrugated memory, peeling and bare,

carrying echoes of laughter hung thick in the air.

That rusted reminder, once sharp with intent,

takes me back to childhood, where every moment spent

built fortresses out of scraps, rough and wild,

as I learned how to dance in the dust—unbeguiled.