In winter days toward twilight
Supper looming and the long call
Of parental care avoided
Like spoonfuls of castor oil

We’d set off on grand adventures
Down the alleyways
Championed by dogs, evaded by cats,
Amid the fine scent of burning garbage

Hunting urban treasures:
Radio parts, discarded syringes,
A cache of vacuum tubes,
Ground glass whiskey tops,

And once, an entire television
Bereft of its fine cabinet,
Emptied of all diversion,
And cast forlornly, contemptuously, aside.