The Paving Over

I drove through thinking, good—

the old names on the streets, the maple still alive,

something working almost like it should.

Then the corner store. The drive

became its own indictment: phone cases

where Mr. K used to sell singles.

Different light. I know these are the places

that change. The way it mingles

with memory is: you knew this.

Move on. You're dropping something off.

I almost made the turn. Almost dismissed

the whole drive with a scoff

and took the highway home. But I slowed

in front of the house. New people.

A wreath on the door. And in the road-

side strip, the two-inch needle

of crabgrass that used to be there—

the downspout rusting in it—

gray concrete now. Bare.

A kid on the porch. A minute

too long I sat. The air

smelled like someone else's yard.

I drove.