Every boy has a hideout no one knows:
mine was a cave in tangled privet bush
where I could visit any time I chose.
I only had to twist a branch and—whoosh!—
I trekked thick jungle, T-Rex roaring near me,
or fought at Vicksburg, musket belching smoke;
a Knight Crusader, I made each foe fear me,
until, across the ages, thunder spoke—
“Come home! Now!” Quick, fast forward! Grazed and glum,
I trudged back frowning to homework and bed,
yet when boyhood looked hopelessly ho-hum
this pinky promise pounded in my head:
“Don’t turn your backs, or I’ll slip out unseen
and wave goodbye aboard my Time Machine!”