by
the old house i grew up in.
it's still there
because it's made of brick
and concrete,
stone.
it will be there until
the end of time,
until the big
one blows.
i want to knock on the door
and go in,
take a look
at the rooms.
the basement.
the one bathroom
on the second floor.
i want to open the closets,
the cupboards.
i want
to slam the screen
door.
i want to hear voices,
see faces.
i want to be sure that what
was, was real,
not
a memory exaggerated
by time
and distance.
i want to sit on the front
porch and watch the sun
go down
beyond
the bowling alley
beyond the barbed wire fence
that kept
us from drowning
in the storm sewer.
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