The childhood that was my own.

There is a lie
that has been told
many times over
and years on years
The lie of the firm foundation
the steady rock
and the possessive childhood.
It was not yours, nor mine
nor in the way of things
was it a thing at all.
A collections of vagaries,
a soiled retelling
that wears thin to touch
or is so heavily darned
as to be remade in entirety.
You hasten to protest
to return in hauetur
to repossess the land
that was your own,
and your fathers before you
but it has turned to dust
and blown away.
The places that were ours
were taller, brighter, more
in existence than could possibly be.
They are a series of extrapolations
from concrete  squares of facts
into the type of narration that dissolves
the thread of story.
There is no thing to own
no needful title or claim
to boast in memory.
It was no more mine than yours
but more than that
it is no more
and therefore might as well
it never was.