The New Occupant

The detour was orange and pointed me south,

past the gate where the hinges would groan.

I felt a familiar dry taste in my mouth,

a hunger for things I had known.

The dirt where my tomatoes used to grow tall

is buried in plastic and blue.

A slide for a kid who is sturdy and small,

someone I never quite knew.

The windows are dressed in a thin, yellow sheet,

a curtain too cheap for the frame.

It looks like a body that’s suffered defeat,

forgetting the sound of its name.