I remember my old house –
the hibiscus bushes that lined the street;
the stops on bike-rides to pick the neon flowers,
their long pistils like fingers to touch.
I can remember the vast living room,
with specs on the ceiling like distant stars.
We kept the worn-down couch for a while –
once familiar, then replaced.
I nearly remember when the hurricanes
stormed through. The loosely-shuttered
windows always blew open and woke us up;
my dad always came to shut them.
I barely remember the neighborhood –
the house across the street filled with mirrors;
the house next to ours a model in a trainset,
with a model town and model people for it.
I cannot remember the next tenants.
My parents said they only caused problems.
But the mother's son's left-behind green sweater
fit me perfectly – I still wear it.
I remember the steps along a narrow, sheltered
path of cut grass under powerlines close by –
a journey to some unknown destination.
I remember the path away from my old house.
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Words From the Fragile Spire
RandomWORDS FROM THE FRAGILE SPIRE - An ongoing compilation of miscellaneous poetry, prose, flash-fiction and more.