Zoning Laws

The Liquidators sign is zip-tied to the fence,

white plastic shivering in a gravel-scented wind.

The parking lot is a record of every winter

the asphalt couldn't quite survive.

I haven't been back since the year the roof leaked

and the collection plate came around for the buckets.

The brick is a darker, cleaner red

where the message board used to tell us the truth.

That sun-bleached rectangle is the only sermon

I still understand—the ghost of a shape

left behind by something that decided to leave.