The sun hit the siding like a slap

The sun hit the siding like a slap.

Aggressive, almost, that new, bright yellow.

Not the soft, pale beige of what it was, a trap

of memory, now sharp, almost too mellow

to feel real. A trampoline now, where the great oak

spread its branches like a generous hand.

The swing set gone. No tire marks, no joke

carved in the curb. This isn't my land.

The porch, stripped clean. The ghost of the chain swing

still hangs there, though, if I squint, if I try.

No sound from inside, no quick, familiar thing

that says 'here'. Just the garish, painted sky

of someone else's taste, their bright new life.

And the quiet, where the oak used to be.