Poem: Scouting

A poem triggered by a memory, walking past the old scout hall

There are jokes about cubs and scouts,
and I got out before it was brutally uncool.

But I do have a memory of a jumble
of furniture, cloaked in sheets, lights off.

We are sent through tight crawl spaces,
the leader in there, somehow watching.

I never felt anything — thankfully. And made
my excuses that life was getting in the way,

that I was too busy for darkened rooms
and tight crawl spaces, and prayers to god.