Across the Street

The sign, stark white,

letters a harsh red, too bold

against the thin morning light.

Something inside, old

and settled, shifted. The house, still there.

Rose bushes, wild,

like they didn't truly care

who bought them, who smiled

at their thorned reach.

For years, a window, dark

at dusk, then sun's slow bleach.

A car, a single bark

sometimes, from a dog unseen.

Never a wave, a word.

Just a space, a green

quiet, now disturbed.

Soon, someone else will come.

And I won't know them either.