I want to write a poem that captures

the perfection of The Adventures of Pete and Pete,
like a concentrated shot of nostalgia

to the veins but you should know that it’s a drug
to romanticise the past and I’ve always been wary

of being an addict. But I wish I could make you understand
this pastel suburbia bursting

from my heart like the burr of electric guitars –
a tunnel that times us back to a golden age

of eternal summer where we only remember
long days of light and the petrichor of steaming rain

on trimmed lawns and the wisdom of Michael Stipe
selling popsicles. Trust me: there will be riboflavin enough

to survive the journey back to the greyness of now 
and though I used to chuckle at my dad

for the same rosy anecdotes, it’s different for us, for me.
No, but listen: I have to tell you that

watching nickelodeon, first at other people’s houses –
(we were too poor then to afford foxtel)

was like a slot machine, and the jackpot was Pete and Pete
(sometimes you got Clarissa Explains it All 

or The Secret World of Alex Mack) and we were nestled safe 
in the valley between the fall of wall and towers.

Do you see it? Peeping into our dappled living rooms
through the smudge of sketched windows? My friend,

memories are just another kind of artwork.