That smell— exhaust and wet concrete

That smell— exhaust and wet concrete.

Pulled me back to where I went,

a city I no longer know.

The peeling paint on fire escapes,

like faded lipstick on forgotten shapes,

all those years ago.

I stood there on that corner,

a phantom mourner,

listening for a sound I know.

The specific tram bell, its bright, sharp chime,

a ghost out of time,

that no longer plays for me, though.