guardrails grow soot black privet hedges, ice leaves pruned by plow blade edges, roots undercut by rock salt river, summer ain’t icumen ever
Farmhouse at a bend in the road, dingy pale clapboards rising to a second floor open to the morning sun. Walls and beds and doors just-vacated for breakfast, just waiting for homework and sleep and sex. My private embarrassment for having seen, like glancing twice at someone with their pants unzipped.
The thrill of longing for the unobtainable, a secret buried in the sock drawer. Loss that always comes, pigeons winging home successfully. Combined, they are the comfortable ache of an old habit, the just-right hollow in a chair that’s been forgotten in a back room.
Cheap plastic toys strewn over my used-to-be front yard. Hipsters swarm my used-to-be favorite bar. A terrier frolics in the sex tape section of my used-to-be-open video store – first-date, break-up, make-up: gone.