say what you want

say what you want
about these old buildings
about to crumble.
the liquor store,
with its open sign,
lit for
the early morning
drive through.
each rise of sun,
needing
a fix to begin that
day.
say what you want about
the old bowling alley,
its arched roof,
as if to tell a story,
now a thrift shop
of sorts for what others
no longer needed.
say what you want about
the house
we lived in.
the duplex with its flat
roof,
the brick of then,
roughed red
bleeding its color each
time it rained.
a single bathroom with a bad
lock,
the casement window
we crawled out of
and onto
the tin roof when the house
got hot.
say what you want about
the life we lived,
the church food, the absent
father, the new baby always new,
the front stoop we grew
up on,
then left, no longer unwise,
no longer kids.