The Sprinkler

My neighbor turned it on today,

and a kid from downstairs ran right out

into the spray without delay,

fully clothed, without a doubt.

She didn't know that joy like this

requires permission that we've lost,

that growing up is like a kiss

that stops—and we become the cost.

I watched from my fire escape,

the water catching sun and light,

a rainbow that kept to reshape

itself each second, burning bright.

The kid spun in the soaking grass,

and I remembered doing that,

the shock of water, moving fast,

the way it felt to not hold back.

But somewhere I learned to stay dry,

to keep my pride, to keep my place,

to stand and watch it pass me by—

the recklessness I'll never chase.

The sprinkler hissed against the fence.

The grass turned dark and green below.

I stayed here in my consequence,

still dry, still watching, still alone.