the ride by

the yard, what was a yard,
is brown.
a dust layer of dirt,
some weeds
survive. a rusted push mower
leans against a pile
of cinderblocks.
the thorny spine of a rose
bush bends
towards the low sun.
the chain link gate
is unlocked.
somewhere a dog is barking.
a siren
circles and circles.
the steps you once bounced
a ball against
for hours
is still there.
the sidewalk
leading to the curb,
the street, that hasn't
changed.
a kid's face in the window,
peering from
behind a thin sheet
is round and pale
as any moon could be.
a mother's hand
pulls him away and you see
her too.
her eyes say nothing.
say everything.
you leave, as you always
do.