8

Do you still roll up your skinny jeans 
into wobbly capris and trundle down the hill 
on the rickety stairs your dad built in the 90s? 
Do you still cling to the tree trunks as you go? 
And when you get down there,
crouching on the rocks by the cloudy water
do you press your palm to the gravel beneath the stream? 
Do you still wade in to your knees and back out
to the U-shaped shore? Do you leave footprints? 
Do you dig up garter snakes? Do you get leeches
and laugh secrets into discarded Diet Coke cans? 
Is anyone beside you to hear them? 
Do you stuff your pockets with sparkly rocks 
your mom won’t begrudge past the porch? 
And if we went back—I’ll be home
this summer—do you think we could strap on our crocs 
and whittle away the afternoon pretending 
to be something more than ourselves? 
I’ll call you as I ring the doorbell, like always,
just to hear your sock feet thump to the threshold
on the other side. 

Maggie Hoppel

Do you still go down to Cicero Creek?