There was an old creek which flowed slow, if at all, between the Indiana Harbor Belt (RR) track rise and many old industrial plants. Us kids never gave a thought of what was in it, but we sure had a ball splashing away during the warm summer months. Your poem brings it back for me as it does for you JerryPat. Carefree days at the creek...then the long walk home.
Thanks for an excellent read my friend.
Touch, but don't look