A choking warmth comes piling
through rolled down windows
as slowly you drive east
through an ancient
and dilapidated sunlight
on the last leg
of Seventeenth and past
the corner Mobil where you’re greeted
by the brave little Elm St.
traffic light, it’s been
here all along, on duty
the weeks you’ve been away,
has gone precisely nowhere
for the summer. You continue
past the bleached limestone
that is Field School, familiar
as your furniture, and turn
left on Grandview, down
this brief, dead-ended tunnel
and recognize your house,
waiting like an abandoned stage-set.
The porch is peeling. Later
you’ll open every window wide.
The night’s incessant gossip
will crowd in through the screens—
locusts, cat-fights, voices
of all your old relations
staked out as far as you can hear
in their predictable positions,
meaning that you’re back
in the middle of nowhere,
and everything in this toy
and humid world is famous, even you
are famous to yourself.
Home
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